PLEASE READ!
Please do not read if you think the following topics will be triggering!
Childhood / past trauma and abuse, PTSD,
typical Walking Dead violence and gore, explicit language
Every day, death teased her like fleeting breaths of air across her cheek. Sometimes it got greedy. Last night it almost became too intimate with her. She thought it would have been more romantic to die in the moonlight, or a field of flowers.
Choking on her own blood tasted how she expected; a mouthful of old pennies. The smell filled her nostrils and stung like flayed skin. Slack-jawed, syrupy strings of blood hung from her lips. Her head throbbed, and black began to creep in on her vision until Hershel fed an incubator's tube down her throat, pushing past her gag reflex. Glenn remained by her side, squeezing air into her lungs despite his weakness. After that, she slept like a newborn.
She awoke weighed down by weakness and tasting blood in the back of her throat. Sunlight laid over her, reminiscent of a warm hand.
Outside of her cell, Daryl and Rick's conversation was tense. They mentioned Carol.
"She killed two of our own. She couldn't be here."
Harley sluggishly moved away from her bed, closing her eyes as static-y redness drained from her vision. At the doorway, she supported herself by leaning against it.
"Man, that's her, but that ain't her."
"What's goin' on?" Harley asked hoarsely. All the coughing made her throat raw.
In unison Rick and Daryl looked at her.
"You should be resting." Rick's gaze was steady but shadowed.
"I heard you guys talkin'. Where's Carol?"
"He sent her off," Daryl replied.
"What? Why?"
"She killed Karen and David," Rick said. "I haven't told Tyreese yet. I don't know how he's gonna take it."
Harley's attention drifted. She wondered if it were her instead of Karen, would Carol have killed her just the same to keep the others from the flu? Friends don't do that to each other, Harley thought. Maybe these days they do.
"Let's go find out." Daryl set off.
Rick glanced at Harley. Quiet, she glowered at him as he left after Daryl. Now she knew if she gave in to her urges around Rick, he'd send her away, too.
A heavy round from outside startled her awake. Veins of dust shook from the ceiling. It was an all too familiar sound. The Governor liked his entrances loud. Heart beating to a woodpecker's pace, Harley grabbed the paw of her stuffed Tigger and her tomahawk.
She wanted to come outside, to feel the sun's warm embrace, and admire the world she kept surviving, but the world had other plans.
At the fences, the Governor stood on a tank among cars that formed an arrowhead. They waited like a pride of lions around Michonne and Hershel as Rick walked down to them.
Harley squinted. Where the hell did Patchy the Pirate get a tank?
"We can't take 'em all on," Daryl said. "We'll go through the admin building through the woods like we planned. We ain't got the numbers no more. When's the last time someone checked the stash on the bus?"
"Day before we hit the Big Spot," Sasha replied. Sweat glimmered on her forehead. "We were running low on rashes then. We're lower now."
"Yeah, we'll manage. Things go south, everyone heads for that bus. Let everybody know."
"What if everybody doesn't know when things go bad?" Tyreese inquired. "How long do we wait then?"
"As long as we can." Daryl moved to Harley. "Harles, you ain't strong enough to be out here. You should go back inside and help gather the others."
She furrowed her brow. "No way are you pushin' me to the sidelines, too. I'd rather shit in my hands and clap. I'm stayin'." Rick nevah let me do anythin', she thought bitterly. He doesn't trust me. I ain't about to trust him with this.
"Alright. Things get bad, go for the bus."
Harley nodded. He left and she peered through the fence, wondering what was being said between Rick and the Governor. This guy's gonna hang our heads and asses above the fireplace, she thought.
She felt something tap her back and glanced back at Daryl, taking the gun he offered. She set her axe down and strapped Tigger to her belt. Preparing the gun, she poked its nose through the fence and hovered a finger over the trigger.
Everyone balanced on a knife's edge when the Governor brandished Michonne's katana and kissed the blade to Hershel's neck.
Worry wedged itself in Harley like a splinter. She lightly touched the gun's trigger. Come on, Rick, you're supposed to be good at talkin'.
The moment the sword swooped down on Hershel, adrenaline blurred everything. Bullets popped and rang off of cars. Harley's ears and head had their own painful heartbeats from the deafening tank and gun rounds. She pretended she was playing a shooting gallery at a fun fair. Every time someone popped up from behind a car, she reflexively shot them.
The tank tore through the fences, calm as it spat rounds and wounded the building. Cars rushed in like scurrying mice, cutting across the field.
When the Governor's people would get too close, Harley would choose to be closer. She preferred to get personal. Slinging the gun around her torso, she hurried to better coverage, only revealing herself like a ghost from a wall when someone was reloading near her. She sliced their achilles' tendon, rendering them imbalanced.
"Time fa whack the gopher!" She raised the axe, swooping it down to split the person's skull. Their blood dotted her, turning her into a Dalmatian. The human skull was soft, parallel to pig skin. Satisfaction bloomed in her, a perfect flower that gave her the perfect feeling; like waking up from the best night's sleep. It numbed her physical discomfort with momentary euphoria. She pressed her foot to their chest as leverage to pull the axe free.
Walkers began to infest the area. Their heads were soft enough for quick blows, but she underestimated how little energy she had. Her bullets depleted until she was clicking a dead gun. "Things are bad, things are bad!" Discarding the weapon she headed for the bus, but it took off before she could reach it. She stumbled to a stop and hunched over, her legs feeling like overstretched rubber bands. Every breath from her tight chest pained her.
She felt for her Tigger at her belt. The heat was snuffed from her body. He was gone. Tears stung her vision. She hadn't parted from him in twenty eight years, but she couldn't go back for him now. He was lost in the sea of bungling bodies. Against the cries of her body and heart, she ran away.
It all replayed as little clips before her eyes now. She followed a path away from what she and others had called home; what they'd all hoped to sustain for years. Maybe forever.
When the prison had first loomed over Harley, hope intoxicated her, but she'd tried to crush it, to push it down, expose it to reality, and kill it off. It seemed too good to be real. Towering fences, robust walls, and commodious enough for everyone to have their own space.
It was a sunrise, a kid's sight of snowfall on a school morning. A beautiful border between a nightmare and a wondrous dream when realization came that all of the monsters, rotting and ever persistent, would become something in the background of this new life. The foreground would be of warm blankets and the pale sunlight of a new day's dawn. Hope.
Now it was gone.
It was always the same. A spark of hope flashed up like a life preserver, then the sea of despair would rage again, and it would be gone. Always pain, always despair, and always the same.
If I don't find others, Harley thought. I'm on my own for the first time. I really got fucked more than a Catholic bunny this week. "First, I get the pig flu," she mumbled to herself. "And then a one-eyed headhunter blows up the joint. Watch out, ladies, Phil really likes head. Or did. Whateva." Her and the group managed to survive this long, but they had never encountered anyone like the Governor before, nor had they endured such a barbaric attack. She wanted to believe most were still alive. Rick. Carl. Maggie. Glenn. Daryl...
She hoped she didn't survive last night just for Glenn to die the next day.
Harley trembled from the adrenaline withdrawal and she held onto her tomahawk axe with a rigor-mortis-like grip. She needed to put distance between her and the overrun prison.
Some of 'em gotta be okay, she thought. The bus left full o' people. She stopped, blinking away splotches of blurriness. She pressed her lips into a thin line as the pain of muscle cramps surfaced; like metal clamps were fastened to her, clenching and un-clenching. Tingly goosebumps prickled along her clammy skin. She was exhausted
Harley peered over the wall of bushes, having a decent view of the prison grounds. The fires were still raging, and their bulky breaths of smoke tarnished the sky. Walkers continued to besiege the prison, cluttering the area like a herd of cows.
How am I gonna do this? Harley wondered. I was always with others. I miss 'em already. Her chin wrinkled as she wrestled back tears. She searched the prison grounds for any live person, but the more she looked the more discouraged she became. A hard lump clogged her throat. I'll find you guys...even if it's just one. Dizziness invaded her and she closed her eyes. Ah, gee-whiz, I just wanna sleep. But she couldn't stop now. If a walker came through, she'd be easy meat. Her legs started to quiver and sweat lined her palms, but she tried to stay steady. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she leaned sideways. Just five minutes.
Like a puppet cut from its strings, Harley fell and tumbled over the side of the pathway. She landed on her stomach, and felt a pop in her right wrist. Grimacing, she rolled to her back and cradled her tender wrist. Staring up through the trees' lace-like canopy, she could see the subtle gray smoke from the prison. Sunlight struggled to breathe through it. At least she was in the shade.
A pleasant smell with a mild hint of anise swiped Harley's attention. She knew that smell. She turned her head and relaxed at the sight of Black-eyed Susans. They outlined her form like body chalk in a crime scene. Tears poked at her eyes. She loved those flowers. She reached her hand out to stroke the petals, and the pads of her fingers came away stained yellow. She rubbed her fingertips together.
Yellow…
Walking into the institution, she held a mass of yellow flowers within her arms; marigolds, daisies, and Black-eyed Susans. Their combined scents perfumed Harley with musky smells of wet hay, sweet grass, and a tinge of an earthy tone (but more like cow manure). She didn't mind the overwhelming confusion of odors. Her nose was used to unusual stenches. There were all kinds of them in the institution whether it be bodily fluids or medications.
Harley would make sure to keep the flowers alive longer than last time. Her only chances to go out and pick new ones would be when the staff were distracted making lunch. She'd take a cab out to the nearest public garden (or someone's personal garden), snatch a bunch of flowers, take the cab back, and waltz into her room.
She smiled to herself as she stroked her array of flowers. Dirt smudged her fingers and the knees of her white scrub pants like charcoal. The staff were bound to be frantically searching for her soon, but they were probably going to be met by an angry cabby ranting about the payment she didn't make. Again. She giggled, her face bunching up with glee. "Dummies."
As she returned to her room, she left a light trail of dirt and dandelions. The walls of her room were a glaring sunny color, and the only decorations were dried out flowers she taped up. Interior design wasn't a priority. The whole facility had minimal decorations and "homey" items. It would have been a risk to keep any home-like furnishings in the rooms, so it was left mostly bare.
Harley gingerly laid the flowers on her bed, leaving her scrub top dyed yellow and blurred with soil.
"Harley." The male voice behind her prompted her to face the doorway. "You have to stop-" The tech's words shifted into guttural, croaky groans. His lower jaw went slack and he rocked it side to side, the bone cracking.
Techs. Code teams. She disliked them. They always dragged her away from her cartoons. She furrowed her brow. "Whassamatter with you?"
He started toward her, his feet awkwardly dragging against the floor, and reached a rigid hand out to her.
Bug-eyed, she backed away until she was sitting on her stiff bed. "Hey, chill out, scrap! This ain't funny!" She crawled further back until she met the wall, crushing the flowers and kicking them over the edge.
The tech kept reaching for her, and
She woke up.
A walker shuffled toward her, its bony, maggot eaten hands seeking her. For a moment her reaction was delayed, and the walker clambered on top of her. She snatched its wrists, forced them away from her, and kicked its face. The cartilage of its nose crunched, and blood poured out like a faucet turned on full blast. From the force of her blow, the walker grunted and stumbled back.
Light-headed, Harley dragged herself over to where the axe lay. She grimaced against the mild pain in her swollen wrist. I ain't no easy meat. Not today! She clasped the weapon with sweaty hands and stood up. The walker came for her again. She slammed the axe into the side of its head. Bone crackled, and the walker dropped to the ground. Its head resembled a collapsed cherry pie. "Ya gotta season your meat first," she said, breathless.
She fell back against the incline of the path. She couldn't do that again. If she hadn't woken up in time...Her head drooped as coldness blanketed her body. I ain't dyin' today, tomorrow, or the next hundred. She had to keep going. She had to find the prison bus. Lungs burning like open wounds, Harley started walking. Even if she harbored that shred of doubt she could survive on her own, she had to prove herself otherwise.