Things moved quickly after Petty 'put down' Adrian. Arnold seemed to have given up on any protocol they had and didn't bother taking the rest of the group's details as they filtered into the City Hall lobby. He quickly patted them down, not nearly as thorough as Petty had been, then sent them to stand with the rest of their group by the staircase.
No matter how much he wanted to, Ben couldn't stop watching the nameless guards as they dutifully mopped up the blood spill. Neither of these guards wore camouflage like the others, but they handled the scene with the same type of professionalism. One guard, a young woman wearing a jeans and a pink jacket, tossed Adrian's limp body over her shoulder and disappeared outside. Brandon stirred shortly after Arnold finished inspecting Marvin, who was last in line. Brandon was still out of it when he woke up, holding his nose and groaning. Petty had stood still as stone and silent as a monk the whole time, watching the cleanup of his victim without batting an eye. But Petty had practically leapt into action when Brandon awoke, seeming all too eager to escort him to the infirmary. Ben bristled at this, silently questioning what kind of 'infirmary' this hack group could have had, but he had no choice but to allow it.
The remaining members of the group huddled together along the back wall while Arnold spoke to the men who'd been on guard outside. Ben glanced down the line of people at his side and the uneasiness he felt at finding only five people at his side was almost sickening. His group had downsized considerably just since that morning. They were dropping like flies. Two were missing, one had been knocked out and mysteriously lead away, and a child was dead. None of them should have been there and as far as Ben was concerned, a series of mistakes on his part was the source of all their troubles. He should've been suspicious of the blocked exits sooner. He should've noticed the approaching trucks and turned around. He should've tried to leave town earlier - or maybe they should've never left at all. Maybe Marvin and Jerome had been right all along, and living off the land would've been the best option.
"Follow me." Arnold's voice was quiet but enough to snap Ben out of his guilt-fueled musing. He followed the lieutenant up rickety wooden stairs and looked over his shoulder once they reached the top to confirm there were still five people with him. They turned at the landing and climbed a second staircase, this time stepping out into a hallway so immaculate their forms reflected against the polished tile as they trudged along. Black and white portraits of past city officials hung along the beige walls. Most of the doors were closed but one sat wide open. Three children huddled around a circular table, rather grimly scribbling into coloring books. As the group walked passed, a stony-faced woman stood from her seat on a small couch and closed the door.
They approached the end of the hallway, where an older man guarded a set of double-doors. His gray hair was buzzed close to his scalp like he was military, but he wore an argyle sweater and khaki pants. "Everything alright, Lieutenant?" He didn't even look at the group as he stepped aside and allowed Arnold to unlock the door.
"It's under control, Keith." Arnold pushed open the rightmost door and waved them inside. He squared his shoulders and stared straight ahead, refusing to meet Ben's gaze. "Captain Lancaster will be in soon to give you your introduction."
Ben's stomach dropped as soon as he stepped foot in the room. It was long but not particularly wide, probably a former boardroom. All of the windows were boarded up from the inside, leaving nothing but cracks of sunlight and small lanterns to illuminate the room. Ben wrinkled his nose as the musty smells of dirty laundry and unwashed bodies assaulted his senses. A middle-aged man and woman sat together on a couple sleeping bags, warily eyeing the newcomers. There were far more sleeping bags and blankets than there were people, and Ben had a worrisome feeling that many more people had inhabited this room not long ago.
"Ben?"
A familiar voice called his name. Ben squinted, trying to make out the shadowy forms huddled in the corner. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his mouth fell open. Keisha and Aaliyah sat tucked under a blanket. "Didn't expect to see you again," he said, lost for anything else to say. He'd never considered they were prevented from leaving Fairbanks too, though it made sense if those psychos had blocked all the eastern exits.
Relief flashed across Keisha's face but disappeared when Arnold pulled the doors shut. Her eyes scanned over the six of them, then she frowned. "Don't tell me you're all that's left…"
Ben hesitated, sharing an uneasy look with Marvin. There was no point in telling her all of the details, especially not with Aaliyah present. Someone was missing from her family, too, and Ben hoped the reason for Clarence's absence wasn't as tragic as Adrian's. He cleared his throat and said, "We've gotten kind of separated."
Keisha hesitantly plucked the blanket off and joined them, regarding Rachel with an expression of concern. Tears had been welling in her eyes since her husband's voice came through the radio but finally spilled over after what happened to Adrian and hadn't stopped since. "What happened?" Keisha asked softly. "You're not just separated, are you?"
Rachel tensed and guided Emma to go visit Aaliyah. After a moment of hesitation, the ten-year-old compiled and plopped down beside her old friend. Rachel's breath hitched and she choked out, "Jerome and Lauren got left behind downtown. A-and Adrian...oh God, he was just five."
Keisha put a hand over her mouth and shook her head as the unspoken implication of Rachel's words sank in. Silence mounted between them for a long moment, all of them too shell-shocked for words. After composing herself, Keisha explained, "We were almost out of town when this convoy cornered us. Captain Lancaster will try to talk this place up like it's something special, but I don't buy it. We tried to tell him we didn't want to come with him and he so pushy...things got physical. Clarence got in a few good punches, but they took him away and we haven't seen him since." She looked downwards, closing her eyes. "They say he's 'secured' somewhere in the building."
"They're sick bastards," Peggy exclaimed. The strangers across the room flinched at her boisterous statement, but Peggy carried on, unphased. "We need to get out of here as soon as possible, I don't care if we have to burn the place down with them in it." At that, Courtney turned on her heel and walked off, finding an unoccupied corner to plop down in.
"You're right." Rachel wiped her eyes then tucked a stray lock of brunette hair behind her ear. "We've got to get back downtown before it's too late."
"Do I really have to spell this out?" Peggy glanced unsurely between Rachel and Ben then placed her hands on her hips."One or both of them are probably walker chow. Lauren could barely move and Jerome, well…" She trailed off and quirked a brow, looking down her nose at Ben. "Going back for them is not only stupid, it's hypocritical." Ben stiffened, ready to give her a piece of his mind, but she held up a hand to silence him. "What was that you said when Brandon wanted to go after his sister? No rescue missions, right?"
Keisa began, "I know - "
"This is different," Ben spat. She wasn't going to flip this and make him out to be some biased jerk that didn't care about the group as a whole. He'd had enough of that theory. If she couldn't see the difference between looking for people whose location they couldn't even guess and going back for people they watched go down the street, that was her problem. After pausing for a moment to get his rising temper under control, he added, "We know where they are. We saw them go."
"You know where they were," she corrected with a little smirk. "If they've got half a brain between them, they're not there anymore. And didn't Lieutenant Asshole say something about sentry duty? We have no idea where these guys are watching from. If we go back, we could drive right into another ambush." Without another word, Rachel stomped off and joined the kids. She sat beside Aaliyah and Emma with her knees pulled to her chest. Peggy watched her go and rolled her eyes.
Marvin shook his head, scowling at Peggy like she was a stranger who had just cut him off in traffic. "You want to leave 'em behind, just like that?" He chuckled humorlessly."You could really do it, couldn't you? You've never cared about any of us."
"It's not like I want to," Peggy said, throwing her hands in the air. "I don't have any ill-will against Lauren or Jerome. We can't go back for them!" She scoffed. "Our big plan is to escape and drive right back to a block known to be under watch and crawling with walkers? Really?" She paused, glancing incredulously at the two men before her and over to Rachel. "You have to realize how stupid this is."
Ben wasn't sure what pissed him off more - that Peggy's attitude didn't even end while they were being held captive, or that he had to admit there was some truth to her words. Any number of things could have already happened to Jerome and Lauren, and they didn't know where Arnold's men were watching from. Either way, he couldn't stop the heat flushing his face. He wanted to tell her to just shut up already. He felt like letting her know he'd gladly trade her for Jerome and Lauren, given the chance. But before he could say a word, both doors swung open.
A slender, camouflage-clad man stepped into the room. Bruises ranging from purple to yellow to black covered both of his eyes and his lip had a deep split. He carried a folding chair in one hand and opened it with a jerk of his arm, then sat down. Ben guessed this was the guy he'd heard so much about. The one that was supposed to give them an 'introduction', the one Clarence pounded. He didn't look very captainly; underneath the bruises his face was very youthful, and his tousled sandy hair didn't have a speck of gray.
"I'm Captain Lancaster," he said, looking out into the hallway over his shoulder. A young woman entered, carrying a tray piled with fruit cups and granola bars. Ben did a double-take and inhaled sharply. This wasn't just any girl, it was Samantha. She stood with sagged shoulders, shrinking meekly under the surprised eyes of the group.
Keisha shrugged when Ben turned to her with wide eyes. "I was going to tell you but I didn't get the chance," she said.
"How?" Marvin asked, his voice rising an octave higher than usual. "When? What happened to Jake and Carmen?"
"You didn't tell me your group was so big, Sam." Lancaster gnawed his lip, biting back a grin. "Have we got 'em all now?"
Samantha gripped the tray a little tighter and shook her head. "Not even close," she replied, frowning at the group that was so much smaller than she'd last seen it. Then, she turned to face Marvin. "Jake didn't make it. Carmen got away but she probably didn't make it either. I think she broke her leg and we were both out of bullets." Ben could tell this was a condensed version of whatever really happened. There simply had to be more to it. If he had to bet who survived out of that trio, he would never have put his money on Samantha. He would've loved to hear the full story but Samantha stepped forward and set the tray down on a nearby cardboard box then retreated into the shadows.
"Eat up." Lancaster rubbed his hands together slowly, watching them with an odd gleam in his eyes. When none of them went for the food, he pursed his lips. "Anyway...I'd like to start off by apologizing. I've heard about what happened, with your friends being left behind and what Petty did to the little boy." His jaw tightened and he shook his head. "Mayer, Richards, Petty. Tthey don't represent us. That's not what we're about."
"Then what are you about?" Ben demanded. The Captain could play nice all he wanted. That didn't make up for their losses, nor did it explain why they were taken in against their will.
"Preservation," Lancaster replied proudly. "Lieutenant Arnold, Sergeant Petty, and I made it out of Fort McAdams by the skin of our teeth. We knew right away what we had was pretty good before it went to shit, and would benefit society if we recreated it. So, we did." He smiled. "This place has only been going for a month and look at us. Twenty-something strong with enough supplies to live comfortably."
"What happened?" Marvin narrowed his eyes. "You had the manpower, you had the supplies, you far enough from town walkers shouldn't have been too bad…"
"Things just didn't work out." Lancaster looked to his feet then cleared his throat. "I uh...I was told we had fellow Fort survivors in our midst." His gaze flicked across the six of them. Rachel reluctantly raised her hand. Lancaster blinked, his brows raised in surprise. "How did you get out?"
Rachel wrapped her arms around her knees. When she replied, her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "It's all one big blur, it was so dark."
Ben could tell by the white sunlight filtering through the window boards that midday was upon them. Daylight was burning and there they were listening to some kid with blacked eyes praise his month old group to the moon. "Alright. So...what's the deal?" None of what Lancaster said struck Ben as particularly important or interesting - or convincing, for that matter. If this group was so successful, why had Lancaster entrusted three questionable men with sentry duty? Other questions crossed his mind but there was only one answer he really wanted. "Why are we here?"
For a long moment Lancaster glowered at Ben, his expression shifting from fairly happy to irritated in a flash. "The National Guard was assigned to Fort McAdams. There were thirty of us. Trained soldiers and it still went to hell." The chair's metal legs scraped against the tile as Lancaster abruptly stood up. He paced back and forth, wringing his hands. "I almost died the night it all went down. It was total chaos. So dark you could hardly see your hand in front your face, people running around screaming. I was trying to help everyone get out. I guess one guy didn't want help, 'cause he stabbed me right in the gut." Lancaster lifted his shirt. A purple, poorly-healed scar ran for three inches just above his jutted hip bone. "Luckily Keith found me and saved my life."
Ben did his best to keep a straight face as a wave of dread crashed over him. That sounded awfully similar to Jerome's story about what happened during his escape from Fort McAdams. In fact, it was almost word for word. Perspective was the only big difference. To Jerome, he was defending himself. To Lancaster, he was the victim of a random act of violence. How would he feel if he knew his attacker's wife and child were sitting ten feet away? Ben glanced anxiously to Rachel and his fears were all but confirmed. Her face had turned a ghostly pale and when she met Ben's gaze, she nodded a single, tiny nod.
As Lancaster tucked his shirt back into his pants, he sauntered towards Ben and didn't stop until they were nearly nose-to-nose. "I've seen plenty of people like you in the past couple months," he told him quietly. "You think you can make it on your own, you think you don't need anyone else. You're wrong. That guy stabbed me and left me for dead. That's how people are now." Lancaster clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing again. "I can't risk one of my guys going out there to serve this group and getting shot or stabbed because someone decided we're a threat. If you're not with us, you're against us."
Hardly a second passed before Marvin scoffed. "So you're just gonna keep us in this room forever?"
Lancaster turned on his heel and held the older man in a death glare. If he was expecting a compassionate response to his story, he was telling it to the wrong group. After everything his men had done, Ben doubted he was alone in thinking everyone would've been better off had Keith kept walking that night. "Samantha?"
"You will be held here until Captain Lancaster can find a suitable role or mentor for you," she said, eyes glued to the floor.
"Assuming you cooperate," Lancaster added. "Samantha has been here what? Four days?" She nodded in confirmation and he smirked. "She's ready and willing to help the greater good. She jumped at my offer to personally mentor her." His attention turned to the middle-aged couple crowded together on their sleeping bags. Neither of them had uttered a word since the arrival of Ben's group, their expressions never changing from mildly irritated. "We can't force you to do anything, of course," Lancaster added, fists clenching. "If you want to take the McPherson route, you'll come to know this room very well."
Upon closer inspection, Jerome discovered there were two holes in Lauren's thigh. To his limited knowledge, this was the best case scenario. It appeared the bullet entered the front of her leg and exited a few inches away through her inner thigh. Thankfully, he didn't have any reason to think the casing was lodged inside or had hit bone - not that he'd know what to do if it had. He was acting solely on whatever he picked up from movies and Rachel's work stories.
"I wish I could do better than this, but uh...for now it's all I've got." Jerome walked over to where Lauren had boosted herself up to sit on the counter. In five minutes he'd managed to collect all the auto shop's clean rags, but of course there wasn't so much as a Tylenol. Lauren curled her fingers around the counter's edge in a white-knuckle grip and squeezed her eyes shut. Jerome tentatively prodded a loose piece of denim aside to get a clearer look at the exit wound. It was twice as large as the dime-sized entry wound. His stomach turned at the mess of bloody, shredded flesh. For the briefest moment, he questioned how long she was going to make it without real medical care. Then he pushed that thought out of his mind, refusing to consider such a grim outcome. She was too strong and too good to be taken out like this.
"What are you waiting for?" Lauren asked, cracking one eye to glare at him after he'd hesitated a moment too long. She jerked her thumb towards the garage door, where an unknown number of walkers continued to pound away. "We're gonna have to move soon."
Taking a deep, shaky breath, he forced his worries aside and began laying the cloths across her thigh. After he'd arranged all seven of them to overlap both wounds, he unbuckled his belt and whisked it from the loops of his pants, then used Lauren's knife to gauge a couple new holes in the end. "This is going to be the really shitty part," he said, casting her an apologetic look.
"Just get it done." She ran a hand through her hazel hair and smiled nervously. "I'll do my best to not kick you or scream and bust your eardrums or anything."
With this jimmy-rigged medical care, he wouldn't be surprised if she slugged him. He gently lifted her leg off the counter and slipped the belt underneath. Lauren whimpered as he pulled the belt as tight as he could, securing the rags in place. Blood pulsed from either side of the leather, saturating the cotton rags almost instantly. Once Jerome was content it'd do the job, he slipped the latch into one of the new holes and tucked the end in. "There," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "All done."
"Thanks." She lowered herself onto one foot then supported herself against the counter.
All Jerome could think of was what could've been going on down the street at that moment. His family could've already been shot or torn apart. They could be bleeding out in the street, suffering unspeakable agony. They could've even died and turned. And what could he do? Lauren could barely walk let alone run. They didn't have half a dozen bullets left between them and now they were down to one knife. Even if they took some of the tools laying around the shop, a wrench or screwdriver wouldn't do much against a heavily armed, human enemy.
"I don't know what to do now," he admitted.
A metallic screeching cut off Lauren's reply. The right side of the garage door popped off the track, providing a large crack between the door and the wall. Bony legs blocked out the temporary flash of sunlight as the walkers pushed onward. Lauren whirled to Jerome with wide eyes, nearly knocking herself off balance.
He took her under his arm and then shuffled around the counter and downed walkers into a second, smaller garage. This room was half the size of the last one, with space for only one vehicle, though there wasn't one. All of the doors were shut and there were only two windows, leaving them in near darkness once Jerome kicked the door shut.
"Oh, man..." Lauren grunted as Jerome deposited her on the floor. She gripped her knife tightly in both hands and stared at the door as if she expected the walkers to rip it off the hinges at any moment. Seconds ticked by and the snarls stayed in the distance. She exhaled shakily. "Okay, at least they haven't got through yet."
"Yeah." Jerome's brown eyes flicked from corner to corner, searching for something to block the door. A few shelves of auto parts and fluids sat here and there but he knew from experience shelves wouldn't cut it. Tool chests lined the walls but most of them weren't more than a few feet tall. The largest chest also happened to be closest to the door, but this one appeared too heavy for one person to move. He sighed, opting to lean against the door for the time being. They couldn't stay there long anyhow.
For a few moments neither of them uttered a word, they just focussed on catching their breath. Then Lauren peered to her right, where a narrow staircase led up to a battered metal door. "I wonder what's up there," she said curiously. "Maybe a way out?"
"I don't know about that, unless we sprout wings." He frowned but started up the stairs anyway. If nothing else the roof could be a vantage point, or a temporary escape if walkers broke through. Once he reached the door, Jerome knocked and leaned close to listen for signs of undead on the other side. He turned back to Lauren and said, "Cross your fingers," then pushed the door open. Frigid air blasted inside and chilled him to the bone. The weathered tar-and-gravel roof stretched before him, contained within cement half-walls. He walked around the stairwell wall to view the rest of the roof and froze at the sight of a figure slumped in a lawn chair. He relaxed once he realized this person was long dead. Limp hands with chipped, painted fingernails hung from either side and dirty blonde hair flapped around a gaping hole in the back of its head.
Jerome crept closer and grimaced, pulling his coat up over his nose before the stench of decayed and sun-cooked corpse made him gag. The lower half of the deceased's face was blown off, leaving sunken, rolled back eyes. A double-barrel shotgun laid beside the chair, along with an empty beer bottle. He paused, running a hand over the thickening stubble along his jaw. Walkers were becoming rather run of the mill. No matter how much remorse he carried for killing them, the 'kill or be killed' nature of the world was becoming more and more apparent. Suicides, however, still sent a sorrowful pang through his heart. Imagining the desolation someone must feel to take their own life was almost too much to bear, especially after Kate.
He briskly turned away and walked to the opposite side of the roof, stopping at the gritty half-wall. Crispy leaves skittered along the street below. Ravenous moans from the front of the building carried to the roof. Jerome realized with a jolt of that this was a way out after all. There wasn't a walker in sight, they were still busy trying to get inside. It wasn't as far to the ground as he expected, especially not with the dumpster below. He could easily drop down and run back to the intersection...and then what? He doubted the group was just sitting there playing I-Spy, waiting for Jerome and Lauren to come skipping back. Surely they either drove off themselves or were taken elsewhere by the strangers. Even worse, if he found everyone dead...
Just as he was ready to give up hope, something caught Jerome's eye. A dark trail of fluid ran down the middle of the road. He leaned over the wall and squinted, recognizing the glistening black substance almost instantly. "Motor oil," he commented, biting back a smile. The oil tank must have been nicked during the shootout. Assuming they drove somewhere nearby, they may have left a trail behind that would lead Jerome right to them. Maybe it wasn't a solution, but at least it was a start. He went back inside and plodded down the stairs, taking a seat on the last one. "Well," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "We've got a couple of options."
"Listen, I know you're French but you've got to stop with this 'we' stuff." Lauren readjusted herself against the wall, carefully moving her bad leg. "If you've found a way to go, you have to go."
"You can't be serious," he said, staring at her in disbelief. "I'm not going without you. No one else knows where you are, what if something happens to me?" He fervently shook his head and swung his hand towards the door. "We've got a clean getaway. All of the biters are busy trying to get in the front. And there's a trail of oil that has to be from that truck. One of us must've nicked their fuel tank, it could lead us right to them if nobody's at the intersection."
She snorted. "Are you gonna piggyback me across town? Because I can't go any farther on this leg."
He focused forlornly on her wound, brows furrowing. Leaving her behind just wasn't right. She was in no position to defend herself. If the biters did break inside, she'd be trapped. Besides, it was a real possibility he wouldn't be able to come back for her. There had to be some way to bring her along. After a moment of consideration, he suggested, "How about I rig you some crutches?"
"I'll still be too slow," she replied, shaking her head. "Those guys either wanted to rob us or take us somewhere...God only knows why. You don't need me dragging you down while you figure that out."
"What if they got away and drove back to camp?" He hadn't thought about that possibility before, but now that it occurred to him he was feeling apprehensive about the whole thing. What if he tracked down their attackers for nothing, while the group was safely back at Red Fox Creek? He wouldn't blame Ben if he'd driven off without them, since for all he knew they were both dead already. He sighed. "Figuring things out as I go doesn't seem like the best way to do this."
"Someone had Ben's radio," Lauren curtly reminded him. "I'm guessing they were ambushed just like us, but that's a guess. You have to go see what you can find and trust your gut."
There was no way in hell he was leaving without knowing the group's fate, so what else could he do? He used the railing to stand up. "Alright," he agreed with a nod. "How many bullets you got left?"
"Not many, maybe one or two," she answered. "Just take this, you need it more than I do." She pulled the knife from her coat and handed it off to Jerome. He reluctantly tucked it away and waited for her to elaborate. She pointed up the stairs and explained, "I want to hide up there. If I'm quiet, the walkers might not find me if they get inside."
"If that's what you want." He came to her side and helped her to her feet, offering support in place of her bad leg.
When they reached the door, Jerome booted it open and lead Lauren over to the corner where the half-walls met. "Hopefully you'll have a bit of shelter from the weather here," he said, lowering her onto her rump. He started to shrug off his coat but stopped when Lauren wildly waved her hands.
"No, no," she chided. "Cut the chivalry, you're going to be just as cold."
He couldn't force her to accept his coat but there was no saying how long he'd be gone. Most likely he'd be indoors at some point, assuming he found their attackers. Lauren, on the other hand, was stuck between a rock and hard place. The weather could become a real threat very quickly and she would have to risk being trapped by walkers to get out of it. He hated the thought of the group being so split up and everybody in varying levels of danger, but the clock was ticking. Lauren was safe for the time being and he couldn't focus on her any longer. With nothing else to say, Jerome walked over to the long-dead corpse at the opposite corner. He lifted the shotgun from its place beside the lawn chair, where it'd laid so long that an outline of dirt was left behind. The weapon's sleek wooden grip slid through Jerome's hands as he reached the chamber and popped it open. He counted only two shells inside and sighed as he snapped the latch shut.
"There are only two rounds," he informed Lauren.
"That's fine, I probably won't even need it." She took the shotgun as Jerome handed it off and positioned it across her lap. Sweat glittered against her pallid face and gathered in the dark circles beneath her eyes. "So...this is it," she commented.
"Yeah." He scuffed his boot against the roof, casting a reluctant gaze down the street. Somehow none of it felt real. Everything had been okay just that morning, just a few short hours ago. Soon he would find the fate of his group, good or bad, or worse, he wouldn't find anything at all. He turned his attention back to Lauren and promised, "I will come back for you."
"Just focus on finding the others and not getting yourself killed first, okay?" She raised her trembling fist.
"You've got it."
They fist-bumped then Jerome dropped over the half-wall.
Jerome scurried from shadow to shadow, using trees and bushes for cover. Even if he looked and felt silly, he knew this was a 'better safe than sorry' situation. The street may have seemed clear from the roof, but they thought the intersection was clear too. He reached the end of the street without encountering any walkers and hurried around the corner, crouching behind a thick cottonwood near the sidewalk. From there he had a clear view of the intersection and that was when his heart dropped into his stomach.
The strange armored truck was still parked at the opposite stop sign. The camp's new car, the one Emma had been in, still sat at the curb. But there was nothing but open space where the bus was supposed to be. At first he began to panic, worrying they'd been gunned down right there, but there were no signs of a struggle. The only blood and bullet casings were from his and Lauren's gunfight. A dozen or more walkers ambled throughout the street, but none of them were familiar faces.
Suspecting the group wouldn't be there was one thing. Seeing that they were gone for himself was another. He stifled a sigh and leaned against the tree's rough trunk, curling his blood-caked fingers into the bark. Escaping the shootout unscathed was a miracle, now here he was with the group's rescue solely on him. Him. Jerome Dufour, who had to be one of the most inexperienced survivors, who was smart enough to admit to himself that he hadn't had much to do with his own survival thus far.
He'd never been religious and hadn't given God or Jesus or whoever much thought at all in his life. But with such an unknown road ahead, he found himself praying. Let them be okay, he pleaded silently, looking up to the overcast sky in hope someone was listening. Show me what to do and give me the strength to do it. He turned and eyed the oil trail, wondering if his prayers had already been answered.
Jerome followed alongside the trail, frequently glancing up to scan his surrounding for threats, undead or otherwise. Fortunately, he hadn't had to put the knife to use. The streets he traveled had been upscale neighborhoods of one point. Two storey-homes, white picket fences, and a sea of fallen leaves in place of once manicured lawns. Just a few months ago, this street must have been bustling with an ambiance of normalcy. Barking dogs, playing children, busy adults going about their days of work and errands. Now, an eerie silence void even of birdsong threatened to smother Jerome, a deafening reminder of exactly how alone he was.
The oil trail only continued for a few blocks before the black stream thinned to sparse droplets. Jerome trudged to the last drop in sight and stopped to figure out what was next. This must've been the part where he had to 'follow his gut', as Lauren had said, but the prospect caused a surge of panic. One mistake could lead him farther from his people...that was, if he'd even gotten any closer. Who was to say those men had any intention of going back to where they came from? How could he be sure the others would even take the group to the same place?
"Okay, okay," he whispered, forcing himself to focus on the present. There were no turns in sight and obviously they hadn't driven into one of the houses. The street ended in a t-junction, which narrowed his choices down to 'left' or 'right'.
Jerome jogged to the end of the street and only looked to the left before he froze, eyes widening. The black, bullet-riddled truck was abandoned in the middle of the street thirty feet down. The driver's side door hung open and the faint ding-ding-ding sounded endlessly. His chest constricted at the sight of four walkers a few feet from the truck, clustered around a large, bloody lump in the road. He was sure they'd set their sights on him at any moment, but they were so busy shoveling handfuls of innards into their rasping mouths they hadn't even noticed he was there. He backtracked towards the house on the corner and crouched where the concrete steps met the porch.
One way or another, those biters had to go. That truck had been going somewhere, and Jerome had to continue up that road to check for more clues. However, he'd barely escaped two walkers in the auto-shop. Going head-to-head with four of them was out of the question. He'd have to figure out some way to tear them away from their precious meal. This should be simple, Jerome thought, turning his attention to the stones within a flower bed beside the porch. He leaned over and gathered some of the stones into his arms, then stood up. He edged his way towards the junction, careful to stay hidden from the walker's line of sight just to be safe.
The house across the street had a large picture window beside the front door. He took a handful of rocks from his arm and hurled them towards the shimmering, sunlit glass. As the window smashed into billions of shards, Jerome pressed himself back against the house. He waited with every muscle in his body prepared to move, ready to run for it once the walkers came to investigate...only they never did. After standing there for far too long, Jerome craned his head around the corner and scowled. None of the dead found the noise interesting enough to stop feeding.
Well, shit. Back to the drawing board. Jerome let the remaining rocks in his arms fall to the ground. If noise wasn't going to distract them, he had to assume only the temptation of live meat would. He released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, knowing he had to be more direct.
"Come on!" He thumped his fist rhythmically against the house's siding and cringed, every fiber of his being urging him to stop. The only female biter slowly turned and locked eyes with Jerome. Crimson pulp dripped down her rotted face and plopped onto her ripped, billowing dress. He stopped pounding and took a couple steps back as she started towards him. "This way!" He clapped his hands a few times and the other walkers followed.
Jerome bounded around the porch, sweat chilling his face. The biters were moving fast now that they had prey in sight, and all it would take was one misstep for them to descend upon him. He reached the privacy fence and flung the gate open. Nothing lurked in the backyard besides overgrown grass and a swing set, so he hurried to the middle of the yard and paused. "Come on," he murmured, the world around him falling away as he waited with bated breath for the biters to reappear.
As soon as the walkers staggered through the gate, Jerome bolted for the opposite stretch of fence. He leapt upwards and the lattice top of the fence slammed into his belly, bringing his escape to a screeching halt as a stinging ache radiated through his lower midsection. He groaned a string of curse words and heaved himself the rest of the way over, tumbling into the gutter below. The biters reached the fence seconds later and pounded against it, but the thick wooden panels barely moved.
Jerome pushed himself upright, taking a moment to catch his breath. Fresh bangs and scrapes throbbed throughout his arms and legs, which had taken the brunt of his fall. The body the biters had been feeding on laid a few feet away. Most of the flesh had been torn from the bone, and everything that should've been inside him was splattered in the street. Jerome leaned forward to get a better look and deflated back again. A few tatters of familiar camouflage fatigues hung from his legs. Although this guy tried to kill Jerome and Lauren, Jerome couldn't help but feel a little somber. Nobody deserved to die in agony, being ripped apart and devoured. He climbed to his feet and tentatively moved forward. The man's face had been almost completely torn away, but one eyeball remained in a hollow socket. It couldn't have been long since he died; he hadn't even turned. Jerome winced and thrust his knife into an ivory stretch of bone at his mangled forehead. He wrenched the knife back and flicked the gunk off, then replaced it at his hip.
Jerome walked to the truck next and plopped onto the soft seat, pulling the door shut. Despite knowing it wouldn't work, he turned the key a few times. Naturally, the engine refused to do anything but splutter and cough. "Figures," he grumbled. He opened the center console first and combed through the items within, hoping to find some clue where these people came from. He tossed receipts and food wrappers aside before reaching the bottom. A few gun shells and a pencil it laid amongst crumbs and cigarette ashes.
The glove box yielded similar results and once he was content this truck didn't contain clues, Jerome deflated against the seat. "Shit." He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, elbows resting on the steering wheel. How much longer could he wander through the streets with no goal in sight? He only had a few hours before the sun set, and he didn't need to be out in the open with walkers at dark. It was him against the world, and he was losing, but the fight wasn't done until he found his family. With nothing else to be done, he hopped out the truck and continued up the street. This stretch seemed to go on forever, and Jerome was glad he didn't have to choose 'right or left' again any time soon.
Soon, the houses became sparse and were replaced by expanses of vacant lots. Tall buildings peeked through the nearly barren trees. Jerome glanced around for anything besides overgrown, undisturbed grass and dusty vehicles. He was growing desperate for any sign of life, some indication that the living had at least passed through here in the past month. Walker carcasses laid every few yards but Jerome couldn't tell how recently they'd been killed. All of their heads had gaping holes where someone had delivered some well-aimed headshots, but their blood was already brown and coagulated.
His heart grew heavy as he came upon another four-way stop. Three paths faced him and he had no way of knowing what any of them would bring. Just when he was beginning to fret, the all too familiar pop-pop-pop of gunfire sounded in the distance. The shots halted just as quickly as they started, and Jerome was beginning to think he imagined it when a couple walkers staggered from out from the recesses between two shops across the way. He stood still as stone, praying there was enough distance that they wouldn't pick up his scent. The larger walker, a heavily rotted man with only a bone for his left arm, turned every which way trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.
The gunfire began again, this time with more intensity. Whoever was firing this gun was doing it as quickly as they could. The second walker, a smaller female, immediately started up the road, dragging one foot behind her. The other followed, and after a few moments, Jerome was third in line. He lagged far enough behind he wasn't overly worried about getting noticed, but close enough he could watch their every move. He stepped carefully along the sidewalk, watching for anything that he could step on and draw attention to himself. He'd been up close and personal with walkers enough to last him a lifetime. The gunfire slowed from continuous to periodic as they approached, but it was enough to hold the biter's interest. Jerome ducked behind a parked car as they came upon a hill steep enough that it obstructed his view of the other side.
The walkers had just reached the slope's peak when when another shot echoed through the block. The male walker's head exploded, nearly eliminating it completely, and the rest of him rolled back down the hill. Guts and slop flew out along the way, leaving a trail behind the corpse as it came to rest a few feet from Jerome.
"Oh no, oh no, oh no…" The smooth, deep voice of a young man sounded from somewhere beyond the hill. Something metallic clattered to the street. The female walker groaned enthusiastically and started down the other side of the peak. Jerome heard a few more panicked noises from the man, then the tell-tale squelch as some type of melee weapon silenced the walker's quick moans.
Jerome peeked over the car's trunk and through the windows. Half a man bobbed along the incline. He clutched a hammer and turned circles, searching for any more biters. Jerome recognized him as he second of the men that had shot at him and Lauren. Now that Jerome was seeing him up close, he could tell this guy was hardly more than a kid, definitely in his early twenties. He still wore the camouflage cargo pants, but the top had been ripped away to reveal a gray undershirt. Blood streamed down his forearm from where a jagged chunk had been ripped away just above his wrist. The jet black swathe of hair atop his head was matted and speckled with pink and red blobs.
He turned a final circle then collapsed to the street, his chest heaving as his breath came in unnaturally quick puffs. "Dammit...God dammit." His voice cracked and he began to weep.
Jerome pulled the revolver from his waist. He flipped the chamber open and stared at the two bullets within, then snapped it shut. This young man was there for the taking. Bitten. On his knees, bawling like a baby, armed with nothing more than a hammer. Some may have called it karma. What comes around goes around and all that. But Jerome felt like this was a test, one of those 'find out what you're made of' moments, and he was failing. He should've been blind with rage, he should've wanted to charge at him and rip his throat out for shooting at him and being with the men who took his family, but he didn't. Chances were this guy hadn't started out as some monster who shot at strangers, he'd been turned into one by circumstance, by the world they were living in. And Jerome was moments away from doing the same thing. Even if he could justify it, he hated the idea of raising his gun on anyone. However, he had no choice. Maybe this man hadn't either. He did, however, open fire on two innocent people and could've been the one that shot Lauren. His accomplices had taken everyone Jerome cared about. He almost certainly could tell Jerome where his family was. He was gonna have to talk, and there was only one way Jerome could make him.
Jerome stood from his hiding place and started up the slope, pistol held tightly between his outstretched hands. "Hey," he called, tensing when the stranger looked at him with an expression akin to seeing a walking corpse for the first time.
He tossed the hammer aside and threw his hands in the air. His sobs increased as he babbled pleadingly, "P-please don't kill me! That was all Mayer, I swear! Don't, don't, please…"
Though Jerome didn't fully lower his weapon, he moved it so the younger man was no longer within his sights. Unless he was some kind of nut with ten personalities, Jerome doubted he was going to jump up and attack him. "What's your name?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.
The man's lips trembled but he didn't speak. He glanced around unsurely, like he expected there to be someone else. Finally, he croaked, "Diego Richards."
"Okay, Diego…" Any bluffs Jerome was gonna try to intimidate him with vanished from his mind as he started up the slope. Diego cowered down, and his breath quickened the closer Jerome got until he was nearly hyperventilating. Jerome kept ten feet between them just so Diego wouldn't keel over right then. "This doesn't have to end bad for either of us," Jerome told him. "I just have some questions I need you to answer."
Diego's dark brown eyes looked Jerome up and down, seeming to evaluate the threat. Then, he nodded slowly. "W-what if we help each other?" Jerome raised his eyebrow questioningly, wondering what there was left to help with. Diego sniffled and wiped his face on his arm, clearing the accumulating tears, snot, and walking muck from his tan skin. "I got it about fifteen minutes ago, it's not too late."
"Not too late for what?" Jerome asked, still not sure what this guy expected. As far as he knew, the only way to help someone with a bite was to stop them from turning, and that didn't seem to be what Diego was getting at.
"If you amputate a limb soon enough, you won't turn." Diego's hiccupped a few times and he choked on another sob. "Th-this guy in my group got bit and we cut his leg off. H-he never turned."
"Really?" Jerome frowned. He'd never heard that one before. Not that it mattered, everyone in his group got bit in the worst places possible, where there was no way to amputate. Jerome looked thoughtfully to the horizon, where the sky was still overcast but beginning to take on the midnight blue hue of dusk. Diego probably wouldn't make it through the night either way. He'd already lost a lot of blood, and some back-alley amputation without proper supplies and care would finish him off. There more pressing issues at hand, like the whereabouts of his group who, last he knew, weren't at death's door. Still, the guy was obviously clinging to the idea that he had a chance, and Jerome didn't have it in him to crush it. Jerome clenched his jaw and silently cursed himself. "I'll see what I can do," he said."
Diego relaxed a little, allowing his arms to sink. "Thanks, man. If - "
"First things first." Jerome reluctantly brought his gun back up and Diego raised his arms again. "What the fuck is with your group? How did you ambush us like that? Where did you take my family, and why? You better tell me everything, or I'm not helping you with shit. Got it?" Jerome's anger spiked as he recounted this man's actions and remembered just how coordinated they were. He took a menacing step forward, as if staring down the barrel of his .44 magnum wasn't intimidating enough.
"Okay, okay!" Diego nodded fervently and stumbled over his words as he tried to explain everything at once. "We - I - they're National Guard, we're recruiting people."
"Bullshit," Jerome spat. He tightened his fingers around the pistol and fought down budding fury. "You're really gonna look me in the eye and lie? The National Guard is gone."
"No, I swear," Diego replied earnestly. "There are three or four guys left from the refugee center, it went down so they've been trying to create something similar. We need people more than anything, so we keep watch around the block for people to recruit." He paused, only continuing once he saw Jerome wasn't going to charge him. "Your people should be fine unless one of 'em pulled a gun or something. We can't use people if they're dead so we try to keep things peaceful."
Jerome almost laughed. Who was this guy kidding? Did he think Jerome forgot the Deadwood style shootout they were in an hour ago? He scoffed. "Hopping out of your truck with your guns up isn't peaceful," he said.
Diego hung his head and sighed. "It was our first time on guard duty. Mayer said there were too many of you, we had to make sure we were in control."
Both men stiffened at the sound of raspy growls and uneven, approaching footsteps. Walkers filtered slowly from the backstreets and shadows on either side, slowly closing in around them. Jerome tucked his gun away and snatched up the hammer instead. "Don't mess with me," he said, more wishful thinking than a threat. "Let's go." He grabbed a fistful of Diego's shirt pulled him to his feet.
Diego stumbled and struggled to keep up as Jerome hurriedly dragged him along the road. "Go where?" He eyed the nearing walkers, undoubtedly nervous without a weapon to defend himself.
"You tell me," Jerome replied. "Where'd your group take my group?"
"Uh…" Diego gulped. He hesitated, seeming to know whatever he was about to say wasn't the best idea. "Help me with my arm, then I'll tell you," he said, with much less conviction than Jerome expected. "I-I'm sorry, but if we wait too long, it might not work."
"Fine," Jerome conceded, but not before cutting the younger man a look that let him know just how dissatisfied he was with this arrangement. He may not have wished the guy any ill-will, but his own group was still his top priority and he didn't appreciate being manipulated. "How much thought have you put it into this?" Jerome asked. "Do you even know what you're asking? It's gonna be the worst pain of your life, and without proper bandages or antibiotics…" he trailed off, not willing to spell it out for him. 'You're going to die' was too blunt, and surely he already knew that.
Diego started to speak, but his words morphed into a shriek. He reared back as two biters fought their way from behind some withering bushes nearby as they rounded a corner. The two men backtracked at first, but more groans sounded from behind them. Jerome whirled around and realized they were far from losing the biters, and more had joined the hunt. He froze for a moment, his focus bouncing from one walker to the next, until he remembered he had to act. He lunged to the nearest walker and wailed on it with the hammer until it collapsed, unmoving, to the street. A second walker filled its spot almost immediately and Jerome dropped it with one strike to the head.
In their desperate haze to get away from the walkers, Jerome and Diego had wound up in another residential block. Houses lined the street as far as Jerome could see. This was a neighborhood, somewhere with much less supplies than a commercial district, a place most people left long ago. It went against all of Jerome's experiences in Fairbanks, but there were walkers everywhere he looked. In every yard and loitering randomly every few feet in the road, some were clustered together in the driveways. No matter where they were waiting for fresh meat, they were all locked onto Jerome and Diego, and excitedly started towards the two men as they stood there staring at each other in a helpless panic.
"We can't outrun this many," Jerome said, mouth suddenly dry as a bone. His 'fight or flight' instinct was not leaning towards 'fight' - it rarely was - but there would be no quick getaway this time. Two men couldn't go up against dozens of walkers, not with two bullets, a knife, and a hammer. Trying to run for the cars parked behind them was a risk Jerome was not willing to take. If they were locked, as most abandoned cars seemed to be, they would be surrounded in five seconds flat."We have to hide in one of these houses," he decided aloud, his words short and curt.
"Give me my hammer." Diego held his hand out expectantly. He shifted anxiously from foot to foot, his gaze darting from the nearing walkers to hold Jerome's gaze. "I can help you fight while we run for it."
Jerome plopped the hammer into Diego's waiting hand. He didn't have time to hesitate, even if he wasn't certain that hammer wasn't going to be stuck in his skull as soon as his back was turned. "Get ready and follow me," he said, forcing his voice not to tremble. He pulled Lauren's knife from his belt and took one final steadying breath, then darted for the closest house.
Diego and Jerome slashed, stabbed, and shoved their way through the mass of walkers. Jerome was running on survival instinct after the first ten seconds, aware of little other than the rank breath, fingers brushing against his arms, and the near-rhythmic action of bracing his arm against the walker's chests, stabbing them in the temple, and yanking the knife free. Diego followed close behind and provided backup for the walkers that were right on Jerome's heels.
The house loomed ahead like one of those never ending hallways from a horror movie. It was more rundown than the other houses Jerome had seen, with cracked foundation and rickety looking steps. There was an upper floor, however, and Jerome had a feeling that's where they were going to end up anyway.
By the time they reached the porch, both Jerome and Diego were out of breath and covered in muck from head to toe. Jerome hurried to the door and tried to push it open. He cursed when, of course, it was locked. He backed up to the steps, dashed forward, and threw himself into the solid oak. The door refused to give and pain jolted through Jerome's already battered body. He slumped to the porch and stood up just as quickly. Diego stood at the base of the stairs, pounding away at any walker that came within reaching distance. Jerome grit his teeth and launched himself forward once again, aiming as close to the jamb as he could. This time, the door flew inward with an explosion of splintery wood.
Jerome ran inside and didn't have to beckon Diego to follow. The younger man bolted after him and slid to a stop at the end of a long gray couch, centered in the living room they stood in. "Hurry, get the other end!" He braced his hands on either end of the arm rest, growling as the rough fabric caught on his bite wound.
The two of them slid the couch towards the door. Jerome stumbled over the humps in the carpet the couch made and narrowly missed busting his chin on the arm he'd been holding. He quickly recovered and bore his full weight against his end of the couch while Diego pulled. They were halfway there when a walker stomped inside. Jerome whipped out his revolver and used the last two bullets putting it down. Diego grabbed the corpse by its decaying arm and thrust the corpse out of their path. With one final heave, Jerome slid the couch into place. Luckily the door hadn't detached from its hinges and slammed shut behind the couch.
"Shit..." Diego shook his head and exhaled slowly, puffing up his cheeks. "I think we'd be better off going upstairs and blocking the stairway, man."
"You go ahead." Jerome edged his way toward the next room where a long table and chairs sat. "I'll be right up." He reached the doorway and paused to add, "My name's Jerome, by the way."
"Where are you going?" Diego's thick brows furrowed.
"Just go." Without waiting for a reply, Jerome dashed through the dining room and into the kitchen. A heavily-curtained window above the sink provided the only dim illumination. Jerome blindly moved forward and spotted door next to the fridge. All of this was based on a hunch, but he'd noticed the house had an attached garage, and hoped the previous owners had some decent tools. He pushed the unlocked door open and quickly scanned the enclosure for biters. When he realized it was clear, he hurried to the back of the garage, where there was a workbench and above it, a pegboard. Many types of of tools hung from it, but Jerome only grabbed three things: a roll of duct tape, a hammer, and a hacksaw.
A/N: Second to last chapter! I know I take forever to update but I'm still so excited for what's next with this story. After the last chapter is written and posted, I'm going to revise this fic then move on to writing a second one. I know there are a lot of style changes from chapter one but I'd like to think it's an improvement and the rest of the chapters will be closer to this kind of prose after the revision. Please drop a review if you enjoyed (or even if you didn't feel free to critique)
