New chapter! So this one is rather weird, and it isn't supposed to make sense. I just wanted to play around with the whole infection thing in a slightly...
different way I guess? But to explain it a bit: he's -totally- mixing up everything here. Time and people. I thought it would be fun since there are so many parallels.
Like, Daryl looking like Murphy, Hershel reminding me of Noah, the prison, all the danger and enemies and so on. Something nice to play around with.

setting: between episode 9 "The Suicide King" and episode 10 "Home"

Damnation

Chapter 35 - Insane

He needed to find the fucking sheep. That was all he could think about. So many crazy and weird things were going on right now, and all he could think about were the fucking sheep. His father would probably kill him if he returned home without those dumb fucks. But where the hell were they? And that wasn't even the weirdest thing, that they were just gone. As Connor made his way through the woods he couldn't help but notice all the people all around him. What the fuck were they doing here? Some seriously wacky shit was going on here. It weren't just farmers like him. No. He could see all sorts of people all around him, who were staggering around the woods like some drunk folks. Businessmen in suits. Teenagers. Doctors. Policemen. Town people. What were they doing here? Was there some sort of festival they had missed? One of the policemen was staring right at him. Fuck. He couldn't risk getting caught.

Connor started walking faster, trying to make his way past all those crazies without making them suspicious. But he could still feel how they were watching him, looking at him, following him, staring at him like he was someone strange. Fuck. They know who I am. They're coming to get me. I need to get the fuck outta here. He needed to find the fucking sheep. Connor stopped walking for a moment when he reached some sort of hilltop. Jesus fucking Christ. Where the hell was he? Trees trees trees. All around him. Trees and weirdo people. He touched and moved his shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time. Fucking Italians. Shooting him in the shoulder like that. It hurt like a bitch. The Irishman winced when he realized that he had used his bad hand again. Connor hissed and looked at the battered and swollen mess that had used to be his left hand. Right. That thing was still broken. Fucking Russians and their ideas. Thinking they could tie him to a toilet to keep him in place. His hand might be fucked now, but if there was one thing that was more broken than his hand now then it was this stupid toilet. How stupid had they really been? Thinking they could keep him away from Murphy?

The blonde widened his eyes in surprise and started walking again when he remembered what he needed to do. Right! This wasn't about the fucking sheep. He didn't need to find the fucking sheep. He needed to find Murphy! He needed to get back to the prison. Only he had managed to get out. Murphy was still in danger. He needed to get back to the prison. Connor wanted to run run run, back to the prison, back to them. Them? Right. Right. The sheep. He needed to save...he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, he couldn't remember. Well, he needed to save someone, find someone for fucks sakes! But the headaches weren't making it easy. He cursed when he ran right into someone, one of the strange town people who were staggering and wavering just as much as he did.

"Watch where yer fucking going, asshole!" he spat but still lost his balance.

Fucking Boston and all those people who thought that they owned the sidewalks with their Prada shit.

He fell to the ground with a grunt and looked up. Everything was spinning, and jesus did he feel sick. He remembered what he and Murphy had been talking about this morning. The fight in the bar. Right. Maybe he really shouldn't have had so much whiskey yesterday. Shit was like poison. He tried to concentrate and finally saw that he had run into some young woman, who just stared at him but wouldn't say anything. It was rather creepy, and Connor thought that she sure as hell was on some sort of drug. The Irishman sighed and managed to sit up.

"Just...watch where yer going, lady. Shouldn't be wandering around in tha woods like that" he muttered and got up after a moment.

The lady just stood there and kept staring at him. Connor started walking again, having trouble remembering where he wanted to go. All he knew was that he needed to get the fuck outta here. Danger. It was dangerous out here. They wanted him. People were after him. Dangerous fucks were after him. He needed to get back to...back where? Ah yes. He remembered. The sheep. Murphy. Home. Right. He kept walking for a little while longer, but soon he hardly could because he was freezing. Damn. Why was it so cold here although he was sweating his ass off? This was Georgia after all! He stopped walking abruptly and frowned. Georgia? No no no. He was from Ireland. Boston. He raised his head to make out the sun. Was it even daytime? Or was it night? He scratched his forehead. Ah. There it was. The sun. It was day. But...he turned around multiple times. Where was he? Where was he going? What..what the hell was going on?

He gasped and bent over when he felt a terrible pain in his shoulder, like someone had stabbed him. Fuck. He was pretty sure that the last time he had been shot it hadn't hurt so much. He needed to find Murphy. No, the man..the man with the beard. Connor hit his forehead hard as soon as he had finished the thought. The man with the fucking beard. That man was his father, for fucks sakes. Yes. His father would know what to do. He had taken care of that sorta thing before. Although the old man was missing a leg now it wasn't like he couldn't take care of his own son, right? He just needed to find their..was his father still in prison or in the hut? No. No, he needed to find the prison. The prison. The old man was still inside the prison. And Murph. Yes. Murph was there, too. He needed to get back to the prison. The Irishman started walking again, although it was more like some sort of stumbling. When he turned around (why the fuck was he so fucking paranoid? Always turning around..round...round.) he saw that the young woman was still following him, and so were several others of those weirdos, including the policemen. Fuck, they know I'm one of the Saints. She recognized me. She recognized me. They're coming to get me. Shit shit shit.

"Look, 'm sorry I bumped inta you, lady. But there's nothing I can do fer you just..."

He stopped talking when he felt how someone placed a hand, no squeezed his injured shoulder from behind. Oh Christ. They've found me. His instincts kicked right in, no matter how confused and disoriented he was. Connor bent over and grabbed the attacker by their hand, pulling them over his back and throwing them to the ground.

"Fuck off! I ain't going back in there!" he yelled and groaned when he realized that he had both used his broken hand again and strained his shoulder even more, but he didn't have anytime to get distracted by the pain because the attacker, which turned out to be the woman he had run into earlier, tried to grab him by his legs with strange and awkward grunts and moans, and for a second the Irishman believed to hear her say nothing but "Help me." Over and over again. Croaking. Gasping. Pleading. Her face was nothing but a terrifying and grotesque grimace, looking almost like... demons.

Why are ye leaving us, Da? he remembered his own childish voice say. He and Murph couldn't have been older than four years.

There's demons out there, my lad. And yer Da's gotta take care of tem. Smite tem. One day yer gonna understand. Look after yer brother. Do yer mother proud.

The woman with the demon face kept pulling his leg, staring at him and pleading pleading pleading.

Help me, so hungry.

Oh my god. You're totally losing it now.

Connor stumbled out of her way and tried to run again, further inside the woods, completely lost now, utterly confused, and unsure where to go in the first place. He was on his way down the hill when he suddenly noticed a small hut just by some lake and let out a relieved sigh. The hut. He was home. He knew that his father would probably be mad at him for losing the sheep and his horse in the woods, but there were more important things to do. They needed to get back to the prison. He needed to find Murph. The old man needed to help him with his hand and shoulder. And he needed something to drink. No eat. Ever since he had lost..had lost what again? The sheep. Right. The sheep. Ever since then he had felt a terrible burning sensation in his throat and belly, telling him that he really needed something to eat. Christ, he was so hungry!

When Connor finally reached the hut he opened the door with a loud bang.

"Da! We gotta..." he winced when the headaches and stomach-ache took control over him for a second. What did they have to do? What?!

"Da, we gotta get back t'the prison, we gotta find Murphy!" he yelled and wouldn't let the pain win just yet.

He searched their hut for his father, but the old man was nowhere in sight. Fucking typical.

"Come on, Da! Be there fer us when we need ye fer once!" he yelled because he got angry, really angry, when he couldn't find his father.

Just like every single time when they needed him, when someone was close to dying his father wasn't there for him, and it was his job to find and look after his brother. Look after yer brother. Do yer mother proud. He searched the tiny kitchen and living room once more, but it looked like he was all on his own inside the hut.

"Da! I really need yer fucking help!" he croaked and finally allowed his knees to give in after all the running and running away and all the terrible, terrible pain in his shoulder, which seemed to get worse and worse with every minute he breathed. And it was so hot and so cold and he was so hungry and so angry, that...

"Get out of here!" he heard someone yell and looked up with an abrupt and sudden movement of his head.

He knew that voice, the accent. Oho of course he did. That bastard. There he was, shotgun in his hand, his fat ass covered with bandages, his bald head shining in the dim light. Ivan Chekov. That dirty bastard that had stolen his brother from him, cuffed him to a toilet and forced him to break his own hand.

"Where is he?!" he spat and got back to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and basically everything, because he was just too angry.

His own father had abandoned him again, and he was the only one who had to protect his brother, find his brother.

"Where is he!" he yelled again and approached the man, ignoring the shotgun and everything else.

Before the other even got the chance to pull the trigger Connor was already on him, using his healthy hand to grab the weapon and make the owner drop it. The Irishman didn't have any weapons with him since those bastards had stolen them from him, and for a second he forgot the scissors and scalpels in his trouser pockets. He didn't know why his instincts told him to bite the man first, but he couldn't control his madness and anger any longer and so he just did. The Irishman wrestled his enemy to the ground and kicked his shotgun out of his reach, then he proceeded to wrap both his hands around his throat, ignoring the incredible pain in his broken left hand.

"Did yer really think you could kill me, you sick fuck?! Where is he?! Where!" he kept yelling and strangling, strangling, strangling and choking.

The man underneath him tried to answer but couldn't because of the lack of air. Soon the whole thing changed because Connor could hardly concentrate on anything because of the pain and the fever, and it felt like some sort of memory was coming back, because he remembered. He was no longer staring at Chekov but the walker who had bit his brother back in Boston. He got so angry that he squeezed even tighter.

"It was never my fault, he's dead because af you! Look at me!"

The man was slowly losing his consciousness but kept struggling and fighting.

"You killed him!"

He could feel how the man finally stopped breathing and collapsed right on top of him.
For a second he couldn't breathe either because he was so exhausted, so furious, so relieved.

Then the banging started. On the door. Knock knock knock. Knock knock knock. He could hear them again, the gasps, the groans.

Help me. So hungry.

It made him furious. Connor got back to his feet and stared at the door, where the banging wouldn't stop.

"Shut up!" he yelled and headed for the kitchen because he needed to find something, something, to shut those bastards up.

And there it was again. Knock knock knock. Help me. So hungry.

"Shut! Up!" he shouted once more, but froze when he found a large kitchen knife. This was all he needed. And yet again it felt like he was losing control over his body because of this madness, because of the anger, because of the fever. He ripped the door open and started kicking and shoving his way out of the hut, and then he could see them. All those crazy people. Those..demons. Hovering over their sheep, ripping their bellies open, biting their throats, their shoulders, ripping them apart and eating their bloody guts. And he recognized the faces. Chekov's men. Those Russians from the Copley. That sick mass murderer who had kept terrorizing Rocco's mother. Yakavetta's men. Yakavetta. All those wannabe gangsters from the Roman's mansion. The man who had killed Rocco. The man who had killed Greenly. The man who had killed Romeo. The walkers that had bit Duffy. Smecker. Eunice. Dolly. Murphy. They were all there. Eating their fucking sheep like the bloody monsters that they were. And he knew what he had to do. There's demons out there, my lad. And yer Da's gotta take care of tem. Smite tem. One day yer gonna understand.

Oh how he understood him now. They all needed to die. So he made his way back to the waiting mob and let his anger take over, slicing his way through all of them and fighting fighting fighting until there was no one left but him and the incredible exhaustion. All his enemies were gone. There was no rage left inside him. Now he could finally, finally rest. The Irishman made his way back inside the hut, closing the door with an exhausted groan, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and hand. He had to drop the knife because it felt like it weighed a ton.

And there he could see him. Murphy's body. Lying there, just like he remembered. In the position he had fallen to the ground when had shot his reanimated corpse. There it was, the bloody hole in his head. There it was, the ugly bite wound that had killed him in the first place. Connor collapsed right next to him and couldn't hold back a relieved sigh when he felt how cool the floor was. He needed something cool, because he could feel how hot and feverish he really was now. He could feel how his heart was pounding in his chest, speeding up, slowing down, speeding up and running running running, and when he finally allowed himself to close his eyes he could feel how it slowly calmed down, getting slower, and slower, and slower with every breath. It felt like he was slowly falling down some dark tunnel, but not in a negative and terrifying way. No. He actually welcomed it. He had finally found some peace.

The first thing he noticed when he finally woke up again was that everything was sticky. His shirt. His jacket. His jeans, his socks, his underwear, it felt like everything was glued to his body. Connor groaned and turned on his back, rubbing his eyes with a tired and exhausted yawn. He hissed when his broken hand stung with every movement and felt it with his other healthy hand. Yup. Definitively broken. He remembered how he had been pulling and pulling, hoping to break the leather restraints instead of his wrist. Well damn, see how that worked out. The Irishman closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh. He felt a dull pain in his head, like headaches that were suppressed by some pills. Jesus. So he had really managed to get out of Woodbury.

He couldn't really remember much. The last thing he really remembered was how he had managed to get out of the lab. And then? He groaned and rubbed his aching shoulder. He could feel the stitches, the strings and the wounded flesh. He knew that he would probably have to clean it. He had been sweating and bleeding a lot by the looks of it, but other than that he felt relatively okay. How fucking weird was that. He just felt like he had eaten some rotten sandwich. Just thinking about this made him gag, and when he moved just so he wouldn't puke all over his body he had to realize that yep, his whole body was nothing but a shaky mess of pain in his limps. He could still tell that this was different compared to last time. Last time he had been in bed for weeks, because the infection had knocked him out completely. But this? It almost felt a little bit too normal. This whole immunity thing was actually scaring the crap out of him.

He knew that it was stupid, but he still put a hand on his chest just to make sure that his heart was still pumping. There it was, the gentle thud thud, thud thud, that told him that he was still alive. Connor frowned and put the hand on his forehead. It was still warm, and he still had a fever going on there, but that was still nothing compared to the last time he had been infected. Perhaps this Milton guy had done something weird to him? Truth be told, he didn't even want to know because it freaked him out. It was a bit too alien abduction for his taste, and he certainly wouldn't talk about it as soon as he..Oh fuck. The others. Daryl. Had they managed to get out? Was his friend okay? Were the others okay? This Governor freak knew about the prison. How many hours had he been lying here on the floor like that? Fuck, he needed to hurry, the others needed his..Connor groaned when he tried to get up and couldn't. His hands and legs were shaking because of the exhaustion and god knows what was going on inside him, but that wouldn't stop him, so he tried again. The others needed him, wouldn't his freaking body get that?

He fought as hard as he could, but somehow he always ended back on his ass. Jesus. That was going to be one hell of a journey. It had taken him and Daryl a couple of months to get back to the group after that first bite, but he didn't have a couple of months! So he kept fighting and tried to get up again and again until some slow footsteps made him stop. He wasn't alone. Connor searched his clothes as quickly as he could only to remember that they had taken his guns and knives and that they were still in Woodbury. His bag was still in the car. He didn't have anything but a couple of pointy scalpels and that sure as hell wouldn't be enough to kill a walker. It sounded like a walker at least. The Irishman turned his head to search the hut for the threat and found the undead by the door. It was facing the exit, but somehow his clothes were still ringing a bell. A dangerous bell. Connor frowned as he tried to remember where he had seen the walker before, and when he turned his head to the left he could see it. Blood on the ground. Scratch marks someone had left with their nails right next to him. The Irishman swallowed hard. It was coming back with dangerous painful flashes. The fighting. The struggling. The strangling.

Oh my god.

The blonde turned his head again to look at the undead, who was still standing by the door, gently tapping on it, trying to get out.

He really couldn't have done that, could he?

But there they were, the terrible images of the man struggling underneath him.

Please, oh my god, no! No! Help me! I'm begging you, no!

Oh my god.

More gentle shuffling and tapping on the door. Connor forced himself not to breathe for a second.

"Hello?" he finally managed to get out and the man in front of him slowly turned around.

The Irishman widened his eyes in shock and didn't know what to say. The man was most certainly dead. It was very obvious that he had been strangled to death, the bruises told him everything he needed to know. And there it was, the faint and superficial bite wound.

Jesus fucking Christ. What have I done?

There was no plausible explanation for this. Nothing but the images and memories that kept flashing before his eyes. He had most definitively killed the man, crazy and tortured by pain and fever, but still. He had done it. A tired groan escaped the walker's mouth as he made his way towards Connor.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry" the Irishman said, as if it was making it any better. But no matter what he said, the man would always be dead.

"I didn't mean t...the bite, everything, that..."

He buried his face in his healthy hand and shook his head.

As if it wasn't hard enough for him already. And now he had managed to kill a man who was probably innocent.

"I didn't mean t'kill ye!" he went on, trying to reason with the undead, but just like all the others this one was also unforgiving and indifferent to his talk.

He was coming closer and closer, and for a second Connor actually considered letting him kill him as punishment for what he had done. But then he remembered his promises. He had promised Murphy not to kill himself. He had promised Daryl to never leave the group. But fuck, could he seriously live with this? He would have to kill the man. Again. Just to protect his own pathetic life. He tried to move out of the undead's reach just so he didn't have to kill him, but he knew that this was not an option. He saw the knife were he had dropped it before he had passed out. Connor knew that he needed to act now.
"I'm so sorry" was all he could say, then he forced himself to get back up again and headed for the knife.

He couldn't find any pennies. What kind of household didn't have any fucking pennies?
And this wasn't even the worst part. His rosary was gone, and he didn't know where. He felt so incredibly naked and ashamed. If it weren't for his tattoos, his stupid foolish tattoos, then he would have felt like his god had left him completely. Connor still decided to bury the man, still decided to pray for him, although his faith was seriously crumbling by now and part of him didn't even believe in this useless shit anymore. When he stepped outside he saw the mess he had made before he had passed out. All the walkers he had butchered in front of the house, the innocent man he had murdered. He tried to blame his insanity. Of course he had to be insane now. The fever must have fried his brain now. Really fried it this time. He couldn't explain it any other way. He still couldn't remember half the things he had done before he had passed out, and part of him really didn't want to know. Ever. Now that he thought about it he wished that he had never made it out that lab. He should have stayed there. All tied up. He didn't want to imagine what he could have done to the others, to Daryl, if this sort of shit had happened with them around. This was the one thing he had feared for the entire past year, and now it had happened.

He felt like crying, he felt like raging, he felt like throwing things around, but did nothing instead. He just kept digging the hole for the man he had killed, kept praying and praying and praying although some part of him seriously couldn't even believe in god anymore. His mind tried to come up with so many excuses to give him some sort of peace, but he knew that everything was a lie. You don't know if this man was innocent. No one who has survived this long can be innocent. You should be glad that the others weren't there. You should be glad that you didn't hurt them.

They were another story. Truth be told, he was worried sick. He missed those people, which he had now considered his family, his home. He really wanted to know if they were safe, really wanted them to be safe. But he also knew that there was no way he could go back to them now. Just like him they had always been worried because of this fucked up immunity. But somehow that still tore him apart. Because he didn't want to leave. Because he didn't want to be alone. Because he didn't want to leave Daryl. But then again. He certainly didn't want to kill this bastard. There was no way he was killing someone with that face ever again. Go back. Leave. Go back. Leave. An endless mind game was repeating itself in his head over and over again as he kept digging and digging.

He was sitting by the lake, hair wet and wearing nothing but his shorts. Connor was trying to get the dirt and blood out of his clothes, simply because he didn't have anything else to wear. The man had several shirts and trousers in his hut, but there was no way the Irishman would take them. Not after everything he had done. He had even found a small storage which had been filled with supplies, but he wouldn't touch them either, no matter how hungry he really was. He would rather starve to death than feast on the food that had belonged to the man he had murdered. The Irishman thought about how ironic the whole thing really was. He loses his rosary, Murphy's guns, the picture and his friend and everything goes to shit. He knew that it probably really wasn't his fault after all. He hadn't been given any choice. They had infected him. They had almost killed him. They had made him go crazy. But that wouldn't take the guilt away, this wouldn't wash the invisible blood off his hands.

The Irishman was sitting on the small wooden pier and looked at the only couple of things he had taken with him. The shotgun. A couple of knives. Some shells, a bandage and a pair of wooden spoons. He kept scrubbing and scrubbing until his good hand hurt, then he lay his clothes on the planks to let them dry. The cold water of the lake had done him some good, but he still felt like crap. He knew that he needed to rest and make it through this infection, but he wouldn't allow himself that. He knew he didn't deserve this kind of luxury after what he had done, and he knew that he needed to pay the man he had murdered some sort of respect. So there was no treating himself. No sleeping. No nothing. He needed to get out of here.

Connor sighed and grabbed the wooden spoons and bandage to take care of his broken hand, careful to keep it steady and calm. He didn't really want to think about anything so he just kept staring at white cloth which was getting dirty because even after washing all the blood and sweat off his body he was still dirty as hell. He raised his head when he heard a car engine close by. Was this the Hyundai? He listened up but couldn't hear a damn thing. He shook his head with an angry frown and paid more attention to the bandaging process. The Irishman didn't trust his senses anymore.

Next thing ye know is that you hear the angels sing.

God how pathetic the whole thing really was. He turned his head once more when he heard the engine again, and just then a couple of white flowers by the bank caught his attention.

Cherokee roses.

Sign of hope. Gives strength.

Connor snorted angrily and turned his head. He hated those things. The first thing he was going to do as soon as he got up was rip them out and throw them in the lake.

Lying piece of shit. That's what you are.

"Look at that!" he heard someone say and turned his head abruptly to see who was behind him.