A/N: Just wanted to thank mikiss for catching that lil' word mistake in the last chapter. Lol! I fixed it immediately. Gracias! :)
Also, so sorry about the long wait between updates! I was working super hard on the production project and now we're finally live! If you want to see what I've been doing all this time, you should check out match-dot-colaborator-dot-com. You can choose which episodes you'd like to see go to full series (there are seven pilots in total), there are several fun features available where you can interact with the characters, and the best part of all? We have a forum for each episode where you can post your own fanfiction, any of which has a chance to become canon in the future series. If we choose your work for that, you get paid and credited for it! Your fanfiction stories could actually come to life and be part of the story, which I think is pretty awesome. I've never seen another network that's not only willing to host and encourage fanfiction on their personal site, but may also use that fic for actual canon. Hopefully it's the start of a new era for us fanfic writers. :)
Anyway, enough with the promotionals. On to the story!
*be warned, JD feelz are about to ensue...
JD sat on the busted bedframe, his gaze transfixed on the small hole in the headboard, but his mind lost to the past. He had done his best to ignore the scars of fire on the grounds outside, had closed his eyes against the spattering of bullet holes that lined the outer wall and had traveled through to hit whatever targets that had lived within, but this one flaw in the otherwise beautiful oak bedframe could not be brushed aside.
He'd gone in for his treasures, to take as he pleased from the remnants of a life that was once precious as all good Scavengers did. His pack, now discarded beside him on the floor, was filling up with what to him would become a scrap of armor, a handle on a new gun, a spring to trigger a trap, a container to house a bomb, and any number of small pieces of brass, copper, and iron that the unimaginative looters had left behind as mere junk. His aim had been to strip the bedframe of its springs, as well, but then he'd seen that round, splintered imperfection in the wood and all thoughts of scavenging had vanished.
There'd been a hole just like that once, one that existed in an angelic canopy bed in his old townhouse back in New York, one that he had created with his own shaky hand and that had wound up staining the flowing white curtains in a ghastly red.
One shot. One single shot and he had simply walked away, stepped out his front door in a cloudy haze with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. It had been a miracle that he'd even made it out of the city in that state, that he'd stumbled upon that house in the middle of nowhere where Hank had literally picked him up off the dirt road and hauled him inside to be fussed over by Ruthie. It had taken nearly a month of patient kindness before he'd snapped out of his state of shock enough to even speak, and quite a few more before he was trusting enough to cry onto Ruthie's shoulder about what he'd done. He'd spent the rest of that evening throwing up as if his body wanted nothing more than to purge itself of his guilt and his grief, and he'd spent the next week fighting off a frighteningly high fever, the stress of having to feel his previously blocked emotions proving to be too much for him to physically handle.
He felt that familiar nauseating feeling in his stomach even now as he continued to stare at that hole, felt the pain of that moment when he had locked eyes with his mother in the market and had seen the fear in them, fear and sorrow and pity.
"Run, John," she'd mouthed, but he hadn't listened, couldn't listen. He wouldn't leave her behind to be devoured by the Diseased that had found their way into the shop. Instead he'd gone back for her, grabbed her hand despite her screaming protests, dragged her back to the safety of their locked-down home with her cursing and crying all the while.
She'd been bitten.
"You're gonna be fine, Mom. It's just a scratch. You'll see. We'll get it cleaned up and it'll heal faster than when I used to skin my knees falling off my bike. Don't worry about it, okay?"
JD swallowed the burning lump that had grown in his throat, his eyes unable to pull themselves away from the memory of a bleeding hole that oozed down onto a white satin pillow cover.
"My eyes, baby. They've changed, haven't they? I can feel it. I can feel it all over. Don't let me die like this, John. Please, don't let me be one of them. I don't want to become one of those things."
She'd been crying. Sobbing, actually, her words broken apart by her desperate tears. Still, he couldn't do it, couldn't point that gun at her and pull the trigger. He wouldn't let her do it to herself, either, and had tied her to her own bed to keep her from hurting herself. She could get better, he'd convinced himself. She had to. She was all he had left.
"John, please."
Those had been her last words, her last whispered plea before everything that was his mother wilted away to be replaced by a nightmare driven by hunger. She - it - the thing that had once been his mother hissed and growled and snapped its jaws at him, its white eyes looking at him not as a son but as a slab of beef placed in front of a starving wolf. He'd stood stunned for several minutes, watching this zombified version of his mother do its very best to turn him into just another victim. She'd begged him not to let it happen and he hadn't listened, had been too selfish to let her go, selfish enough to let her soul rot inside that body instead of sending her off to the angels as a human being, as a loving mother that would've done anything for her child. He was so selfish. Why had he been so selfish?
Hot tears rolled down his cheeks as he remembered the moment when he shut down, when he turned on his heels and retrieved the gun from the dresser drawer, when he quietly held it up and aimed it above those teeth that would forever be gnashing after human flesh.
"I'm sorry, Mom."
"I'm so sorry, Mom," he cried, finally able to turn his face away from that hole in the oak headboard and bury it in his arms. One shot at point blank range. One lucky shot that severed just the right nerves to put the zombie down for good. He should've considered himself lucky that he hadn't needed to empty the magazine in her head, that he was able to leave his mother's form mostly intact as it slumped forward on the bed that would become her final resting place.
Whoever had shot the person in the bed he was now sitting on was lucky, too, apparently. Either that or they'd done the right thing from the start and had shot their loved one before the disease had turned them completely. That was more likely, and what he should've done back then had he not been such a terrible son. It was the merciful thing to do. It would've been the merciful thing to do for his mother. It would've kept him from depriving her of her final death wish.
Feeling anger take over the grief, he stood up and wiped his face with his sleeve, sniffling back the tears that he didn't deserve to cry. He grabbed his bag and stormed out of the room, his pace fast as he fled from the memories. On his way out he dug a round little egg out of the side pocket on his bag, a brass little thing with a jewelry box key jutting out of the top. He twisted the key sharply and pulled it out of its copper keyhole, pocketing it and chucking the egg behind him. He left another on the stairway, then another in the kitchen, and planted one more in the living room before finally leaving the house in a haze of hurt and bitterness. Another thirty quick paces and about ten seconds later, the whole building exploded behind him into so many pieces of wood and broken dreams, taking that memory of the bullet hole in the headboard right along with it.
"I was wrong," he snapped at Josiah as the preacher ran towards him, cutting off whatever it was that the man was going to say. "I don't know who came through and shot up the town, but the virus got here first. It got here f..."
He trailed off, waving his hand in the air to dismiss his own words as he kept right on walking, his only goal being to get the hell away from this morbid reminder of his past and his sins - far, far away.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
All signs of a slow, peaceful afternoon vanished back at the tank, Vin hissing as he tried to jump to his feet too fast and Chris cursing as he held him in place; Buck dropping his spoon with a heavy splat into the pot just before he bolted out the door; Nate and Ezra glancing at one another in alarm before both sets of eyes turned to the horizon where a large cloud of smoke had followed the thunder of a violent explosion.
"Ez, your bike," Larabee demanded as he rounded the corner of the rig at a sprint, Vin limping slowly behind him.
Not that Standish had been given a chance to protest. The Ranger was on the vehicle and spinning it towards the commotion before the Pirate even had a chance to open his mouth.
"By all means," he mumbled as he waved away the dust cloud that the bike had left in its wake, then pointed his hand at Weena. "Should we go after our fearless leader?"
Buck turned his mouth down in a scowl. "Can't. The kid's the only one who knows how to start the damn thing."
"Then let's just hope he's still alive," Ezra deadpanned.
Without another word, Buck took to the path the bike had left in the sand with Nate stepping in beside him. They didn't ask Ezra to come, nor did he volunteer it, instead choosing to scoop up his tattered jacket and moving over to stand in the shade of the rig beside Tanner.
"Reckon the Pirates must've heard that, too," Vin said quietly.
Ezra tilted his head in a curt nod. "At least enough to warrant an investigation party. It might be in our best interest, since it would appear neither one of us are fit to run in our current conditions, to take up arms inside this monstrosity?"
"Can't argue with ya, there," Vin agreed with a touch of a smile on his lips. He led the way back inside the tank, all too happy to crawl back up into his crow's nest and to feel the weight of his rifle in his hands. If anyone came over the ridge that wasn't a friend, he'd be ready for them. He could only hope that "Mercury" would be ready at his back.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
When Chris pulled up to see JD storming through the desert, Josiah hot on his heels, at first there was an odd wave of relief that washed over him. It was strange to feel that for someone who wasn't Buck, a man who'd been his best friend and partner on the battlefield for so many years, someone who had more than earned the right to be called a brother. To feel such relief over the wellbeing of men who were still mostly strangers to him...he wondered briefly where it came from. Maybe it was because there were so few good people left in the world that to lose a few more was always disarmingly tragic; or maybe it was because JD was so young and so full of fiery energy, reminding him a little of himself at that age, and maybe reminding him a little of his own son...
Chris shook away the thought and let a more familiar anger push the relief aside. The kid didn't look scared at all, and neither did the preacher. There was no sense of urgency in their stride, nothing that spoke of fleeing from some unknown danger, which could only mean one thing. One of them had created that explosion. One of them had just exposed their position to the Port that was hidden somewhere only a few miles away. One had them had just needlessly put the rest of them in danger.
"What the hell happened?" he barked as he rolled the bike to a stop in front of the Toymaker.
"Nothing," the kid spat out. "The place was contaminated. I took care of it."
Chris shot a look at the preacher who could only shrug back his own confusion along with a sort of apology.
"Boy doesn't want to talk," Josiah needlessly explained.
"He damn well better," Larabee practically snarled in JD's direction, "but we don't have time for that right now. Whole damn state probably knows we're here. We've gotta move."
"Why do ya think I'm hurryin'?" JD snapped back, and stepped around the dirtbike that was blocking his path.
Chris turned in his seat and watched him go a few paces before letting out a huff of air in sheer frustration. "Get on the bike, JD. Bet half the damn team's already on their way over here. It'll be faster to get you in the driver's seat and pick everybody up."
The kid walked a few more steps, then thankfully saw the intelligence in the Ranger's words. "Fine," he mumbled, "but I don't want to talk about it."
"I said later," Chris promised, and waited patiently for the Toymaker to hop on behind him before gunning the bike back towards the rig. He made sure to toss Buck and Nate a little wave on the way past them, a sign that all was well for the time being, and could only shake his head at their questioning looks. He would explain everything to them once they had relocated to somewhere more safe.
…Or, JD would explain everything to them, because the kid owed them that much. Larabee would see to that.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Stupid. He'd been a dumb, stupid, selfish kid, just like he'd been back then with his mom. Now they were all going to hate him for sure, and if they didn't, they were just as stupid as he was. Every damn Pirate and Scavenger and zombie that had any sense of hearing left would know they were out there. This was exactly why he didn't travel with anyone. All he ever wound up doing was getting everyone he cared about killed.
Already hurt and ashamed and angry at the world at large, the last thing he needed to see when he got back to his only reliable (and virtually indestructible) "friend" was a Pirate in the driver's seat tinkering with the console.
"What are you doing?" he shouted, hauling Ezra out of the chair and shoving him back against the wall. A second later and their positions were reversed, Standish's eyes dark as his fists clenched inside the Toymaker's vest, pinning the boy in place.
"Easy, easy!" Vin called out as he dropped down from the hatch above, mindful not to land on his bad leg. Chris jumped in at the same time and barely refrained from grabbing Ezra by the scruff of his shirt and tossing him out into the sand. It wasn't the time to be making matters worse.
"Get. Off," JD demanded, his tone far too cold for someone so young.
Undaunted, Standish glared back at the kid for several long seconds before Larabee cautiously stepped in with a quiet order of his own.
"Let him go, Ezra," he said, more of a request than an order, one that thankfully the Rising man complied with.
"I wasn't trying to steal it," he muttered angrily, more to JD than to anyone else, the two of them continuing to stare at one another at a dangerously close range.
It was laughter that finally broke the tension, Vin's laughter that carried with it a certain lightness that could've dissolved hard stone.
"Shit, kid, you think he'd be dumb enough to drive off with your tank with a SWAT sniper in the ceiling?" he pointed out.
The humor didn't spread. Instead, it did something else, sparked something in Ezra's eyes that only JD could see at their close range...something like the dark memory that had been sparked in him at the sight of that single bullet hole in the headboard.
"First rule of being a thief: leave no witnesses," the Pirate mumbled, casting his gaze down not to the floor, but somewhere in the past. He backed away and glanced up at Chris briefly, just enough to slip past him and back outside where the air wasn't quite as thick.
"Stay close," Larabee called after him. "We're picking up the boys and moving out."
Ezra merely waved over his shoulder and hopped back on the bike, buzzing it off and stopping it up on a nearby ridge where the camera feed couldn't see over the crest. He looked content to stay there, presumably keeping watch until the time came to hightail it out of the area.
"Sorry," JD whispered, cursing himself internally all over again. He wasn't the only one with ghosts in his closet, and he was doing a fantastic job at bringing out everyone else's.
Chris shook his head. "Save it. Get this started and get us out of here. Had enough fighting for one day."
The kid quietly did as told, all the emotion completely drained out of him. This was too much, the responsibility too much to bear. Once this was over and he'd dropped everyone off at Rising, he was done, back out on his own where he didn't have to think of anyone but himself. It was better that way. It had always been better that way. He was an idiot to think that this time could be any different.
He took one last look at Ezra up on the hill and sighed. Some people were just meant to be alone.