"Final report, the commercial star-ship Atlanta. Deputy Sheriff reporting. My crew - Leon Bassett, Spencer Monroe, Theodore Douglas, Dale Horvath, Phillip Blake, and Herschel Greene - are… they're dead. I've been shot, but I should be able to reach the frontier soon, maybe six weeks. The network should be able to pick me up. This is Rick Grimes, last survivor of the Atlanta, signing off."
When the salvage crew had first stumbled across a ship floating through dead space, they hadn't thought much of it. As far as they were concerned, it was just like any other gig, just another empty husk of metal floating in the darkness with naught but remnants from another life trapped on board. They didn't, however, expect one of those remnants to be stored within a cryotube, much less for it to still be living or breathing.
Rick Grimes awoke slowly, fighting the fog filling his mind. For a second, he'd almost swear that he saw his wife, all dark hair and pale skin, floating before his eyes, but she disappeared with a single blink. Replacing her face was a bland, gray tile ceiling and harsh lights that forced his eyes shut again, wincing through dark lashes at the light streaming down.
It was a voice that finally woke him, splitting the silence with a cheery, "And how are we today, sir?"
His eyes shot open again, taking in the hospital room around him as he struggled to sit up, aided by the assistance of his bed, inclining itself at the command of a nurse standing nearby. She was pretty, with gold hair curling from a ponytail and hazel eyes trapped behind black glasses. Her shirt held a nametag - Denise Cloyd stitched in white on dark cloth - and she was smiling as she operated the chair. It took him too long to process her question, but, when he did, he nodded weakly. His voice was just as shaky as he said, "Uh…" He cleared his throat, shifting on his elbows again as he tried - and failed - to sit up on his own. "Terrible."
Denise grinned. "Just terrible? That's better than yesterday, at least." She was leaning just over his shoulder, now, fiddling with some of the machinery, and something about that made him anxious. He shifted, eyes darting around warily, looking for a threat that he couldn't quite remember. A dark shape appeared in one corner of his vision, a hiss of some kind sounding too loud in the still room. He glanced over at the nurse, but she didn't even look over. By the time he'd looked back, the shape was gone.
Even leaving aside the... memory or hallucination or whatever it was, something didn't feel right. He shifted again, some distant part of himself recognizing that he had shifted into a position that made it easier to run, and he wondered why the instinct was there, but he shrugged, pushing it aside in favor of getting answers. "How long have.. Have I been here?"
Denise smiled and shrugged. "Just a couple of days." She stepped back, then, her friendly smile still curling on her lips. "Do you feel up to a visitor?"
Rick nodded, giving up on his attempt to sit up of his own accord and slumping back against the pillows. The door opened, then, the hydraulics letting out a hiss that sounded too much like the one he'd hallucinated earlier, too much like the one constantly lingering at the back of his brain. He was missing something - he knew it was something crucial, something about darkness and fear and dripping water and death - and that, more than anything, had him on edge, so he tried to force a smile as a man stepped through the door.
The smile turned genuine as soon as he recognized the man standing before him. Dark hair, short but curly, covered a familiar face, white teeth splitting tanned skin into a cocky grin. "Hey, partner."
"Shane!" Rick grinned, once more trying to sit up on his own accord before yielding and accepting that it wasn't going to happen. Instead, he smiled, watching as his old partner sat down beside Rick's hospital bed. He looked over the other man's clothing, noting the lack of official insignia or military fitting. "What, no uniform?" It wasn't the only thing he was missing, either; Shane had lost some of his vitality. His hair was no longer jet black, spattered with the occasional grey hair, and his face was no longer quite as taught or smooth as when they'd first joined.
"Nah, man." He shrugged, still grinning even as he spoke. "Retired about a year or two before you got back, actually. Went private." Ah, that explained the aging; without frequent trips in cryotubes, Shane had been spending more and more time subject to time. Rick didn't have time to continue contemplating the changes in his old partner as the grin fell from his face, eyes turning serious with barely concealed emotion. "We thought you were dead, man. Lori a- and Carl and I, we thought you were dead."
Suddenly, the pit of dread in his stomach worsened, cold fear in his gut. "Where are they? Where's my family?" Shane looked down, unable to meet Rick's eyes, and a wave of nausea passed over him.
When he answered, Shane didn't even address the question. "Yeah, I work for the company now. Got back from my last hyperspace mission and found out that I couldn't go under again… Something about side effects or crap like that. Anyway, glad to see you're feeling better." Rick knew his old partner well enough to know that something had him nervous, a belief only strengthened by the flow of words spilling into the room. "They, uh, they said your symptoms should pass soon. Something about side effects of your…" He stumbled again, shrugging before carrying through. "...unusually long hypersleep or something."
Rick allowed his initial question to drop for a time, switching tacks abruptly. "How long was I out there?" He considered adding something about the fact that no one was willing to tell him anything, but decided that such a statement would only work against him.
Shane looked around nervously, dark eyes darting around. "Maybe you shouldn't worry about that, man. Not important right now, huh?"
Rick ignored the blatant attempt to transition. "Brother…" He gripped Shane's arm hard, using the old term of endearment in what, he knew, was a low blow in guilt trip. "I need to know… how long?"
Shane nodded, and Rick got the unpleasant sense that he was being appraised as his partner said, "Alright." The other man - simultaneously so familiar and a complete stranger - shifted again. "Fifty-seven years."
Rick's world - too large and spacious as the hospital room had seemed - narrowed down to those words echoing in his head. Fifty-seven years. Fifty-seven years. Fifty-seven… He tried to speak, but nothing came out except a muffled repetition of the number still playing on loop in his head.
He was only dimly aware that Shane was still speaking. "They, uh, they tell me you drifted right through the core systems. It's pretty much luck that a deep-salvage team found you…" He trailed off, dark eyes flicking nervously over Rick's face. Rick could feel the panic rising within him, fear clawing its way out of his gut and gripping his airway. "What's the matter, man?"
He struggled for breath, wincing as the movement jostled the gunshot wound in his side, but that was the least of his worries. Instead, he was far more focused on the tugging sensation in his chest, the violent cracking of bones that he swore he could feel. Deja vu struck him, then, and a scene - that of people clustered around a table, that of a small, snake-like creature bursting from the chest of one of his men - flashed into his head, but he couldn't remember… He couldn't remember. That thought alone merely worsened the panic, his breathing harshening further.
He vaguely noticed Shane handing him a glass of water, but he couldn't work up enough air to say anything so he put out a hand to push it away, his panic making him overshoot and send it crashing to the floor. It smashed there, shards of crystal mixing with cool water that splashed across the tile, and he watched, fascinated, as the water spread. Another half-memory - more dripping water, spilled liquids rippling with the vibration of a ship's engine, some unknown fluid somehow sliding upwards off of egg-shaped containers - flitted in and out of his head before he could grasp it.
The pain in his chest worsened, and he swore five of his ribs broke at once. Loud, shouting voices sounded around him, but he couldn't focus on them at all. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the rapidly spreading blood slowly seeping into his pure white shirt. He almost screamed, but he restrained the urge, turning to look at Shane and managed to growl out a "Kill me" through gritted teeth before another sharp pain took his breath away and something broke out of his chest and through his shirt.
He shot awake, bolting upright in bed like the characters in all those classic films he'd watched growing up. He was in the hospital room, but it was dark and Shane wasn't there. Instead, he was alone, moonlight streaming in to reassure him of that fact. It was only then that everything came flooding back; the events from the Atlanta, his reunion with Shane (days ago, not recent at all), the constant nightmares plaguing his sleep.
He was almost glad as the intercom crackled and Denise's friendly voice filled the room. "Bad dreams again? I can give you something to help you sleep?"
With an angry grunt, he threw aside the blankets, surging to his feet and starting to pace around the suddenly claustrophobic room. He turned towards the intercom, shaking his head and giving a slight wave, but his voice, when he spoke, was rough with annoyance and disuse. "I've slept enough."