Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: For imorca because she tagged me on tumblr and literally just said: "Milton x Jesus, tho" and here we are because I am an entire trash can, apparently. Set in an AU where Milton escaped Woodsbury with Andrea in season three instead of staying, but lost Andrea before they could get to the prison and ended up on his own in the wild. Everything basically follows canon, but Milton is on his own until around the time when Team Family discovers Alexandria where in fix his comes across Jesus.
Disclaimer:Grief/loss/healing, depression, adult language, canon appropriate violence, blood and gore, sexual content, slow burn.
Scintilla
Chapter Eight
Aware was he was, in the white-blind of the building storm, he nearly walked right into middle of them. He was able to jerk back and hide himself around a tree with less than a hair's breath to spare when the closest walker turned unsteadily on it's heel. Bare feet peeling and raw against the rocky snow. Scenting the air as it's thinning, patch-work hair swung in frozen, clumping tendrils against it's shoulders.
He wormed his way out of his pack with difficulty. Unsheathing his machetes and crouching low as he skirted around the edges of the group. Looking for a way through as the walkers staggered slowly forward. It didn't take long to figure out that getting around them was going to be a serious problem.
His heart sank. The herd was massive. Easily five hundred strong, maybe more. And that was just the ones he could see. He had no way of knowing how many were behind him, how many were ahead or even how long it'd been passing through for. It was likely from one of the cities. One of the safe zones that'd been overrun with all those people packed into them like sardines in a tin. Maybe even from Washington. It'd probably been on the move ever since. Following stimulus – a yell or an escaping car - until they started trickling out of the city limits and just kept going. Picking up roamers along the way.
If he could have seen an aerial view, he would have guessed that their numbers swelled in the middle. Shambling listlessly just like any other herd animal heading towards an unknown destination. He'd seen this before, but never this large.
Paul.
It stood to reason that if Paul had stumbled across the same problem on his way home he would be laying low. Waiting for them to pass. Which in this storm probably meant he was close by, holed up somewhere half-frozen. Debating with himself whether it was worth the risk to make a fire. All he had to do was find him.
He didn't think about the alternative.
He couldn't.
Not here.
Not now.
Not when he was this close to-
He approached what came next logically. More or less unaffected – detached - when he took down a walker at the very edge of the herd. Nothing more than a passing shape in the gloom as he sliced off a section of scalp and brain and let it drop. Taking a calculated risk that the others couldn't sense him through in the storm as he lurched to the side, copying the surrounding walkers as they turned to look at the fallen shape. Angling around curiously before their attention hazed away again. He waited until they'd started staggering through the drifts again before he dragged the body behind a clump of leaf-bare brush and out of sight.
He used his belt knife to cut away the wisps of clothing. Leaving it in a sun-bleached bra and what he could only figure had once been a rather smart looking pencil black skirt before he ripped into the walker's soft underbelly and got to work.
He was halfway through uncoiling the intestines when the tang of vomit rose up in his throat. Able to turn his head to the side just in time to waste the hurried breakfast he'd wolfed down that morning. Grimacing as he wiped his mouth and pulled the rest of the organ out with an angry jerk. Wrapping it around his pack so that his back would be covered in its scent.
There was no time.
No time to stop.
No time to be weak.
No time to curse himself for getting soft.
And for allowing himself to fall into the trap that called itself complacency.
Into old habits and self destructive ways of thinking that had no place in the world anymore.
If Paul was nearby, especially this close to the herd, he had to be able get around undetected. He didn't need the Milton Mamet with the churning belly and trembling fingers. The one who'd gotten Andrea killed. Who was responsible for everything he hadn't been able to stop. He needed the Milton who had lashed out, desperate and feral-vicious on the road. The Milton that knew how to survive. How to live. How to fight. How to-
The blood was tacky and thick between the fingers of his gloves when he scooped it up. Refusing to come to terms with the fact that it felt remarkably full circle as he smeared the foul, clotted blood across his face and clothes.
He couldn't.
After all, things that came full circle generally indicated an end of some sort, didn't they?
And that was something he didn't want to think about, especially when it came to Paul.
Not for a long time.
Just as he'd suspected there was a suburb less than a mile away from the natural corridor the herd was moving through. Most of the houses were trashed. Host to kicked in doors and year old leaves, debris and animal scat. But even then it didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. A thin breath of smoke trailing up from the chimney of a four gable house at the end of the block. Far enough away to be out of sight of the herd in the storm, but enough that for him it stood out like a beacon.
Paul.
It had to be.
But the number of cars pulled up front caught his attention. Making him hesitate – wary as he took it in from a safe distance. Deciding to play it smart for the time being in favor of getting a better look. Ignoring the insistent little voice that pushed at him to just toss it all to the wind and make sure Paul was okay. He frowned, adjusting his glasses as he slowly rose to his feet behind the cover of the collapsed gutters of the house opposite. Squinting a bit when he noticed the ground floor windows had been covered from the inside.
He waited for a long moment before limping into the street. Muscles numb, long past the burning-freeze of too cold as he convinced his aching body to keep moving. Confident that if anyone spotted him he would be nothing more than a lonely walker shuffling awkwardly through the blowing snow.
There was a truck and three motorcycles pulled up on the front lawn in a rude little cluster. Hemming in the white panel van he recognized immediately as one of the vehicles from the Hilltop. The tire tracks for the truck and the motorcycles were fresh. As for the van, he couldn't tell.
The sense of wrongness only increased. Hedging caution as he snuck around the exterior of the house, knife in hand. Working his way around the worst of the snow and debris before he found an uncovered corner pane to peer in through. His glasses fogged up as snow hit the lens. Eyes stinging as a gust of wind howled mercilessly down the siding. He squinted, frustrated when the dirty glass played tricks with his own reflection.
He could see light inside – maybe a fire in the grate - people moving.
He just couldn't see if-
When a shadow fell across the window, he didn't recoil - too afraid to even so much as flinch - but it was a near thing. He kept his eyes closed until the shadow moved away, leaving him apparently undiscovered as he used the lull to rub a small corner of the pane clean with the cuff of his jacket. Breathing in the sharp, metallic scent of something that was probably beyond cold as his brain played at wondering how much longer he could survive out in the open.
That was when the world might as well have stopped cold.
Because Paul was inside.
He was tied to a railing in a limp tangle of cloth and skin. He'd clearly been beaten, hanging on an angle with a swollen eye. Long hair sheathed protectively over his face as he remained unmoving. Held at gun point by a group of very nasty looking men with smiles like knife slashes and fists that still had dried blood on them.
Paul's blood.
An entirely different sort of cold stained through him as one of them, the leader, paced in front of him. Clearly dissatisfied with something Paul had said as he kicked out and caught him in the ribs. Making him groan and try and pull away despite the ropes that kept him grounded. Hands tied high above his head in clear view of the five – no, six other men that made up what he could see of the group as a whole.
He reviewed the facts as he shivered under his layers.
At best it would be six against one with a herd on their doorstep.
All definitely within range of the sound of a gunshot.
Not that he had enough bullets to deal with all six of them to begin with.
There were too many to fight.
He was going to have to get creative.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek, self-harming and vicious as his mind raced.
He had to admit that even then the odds weren't good.
"Can it, Benny! We'll deal with that once this bastard tells me where he and his little camp are. I know he has one. How else could he be laying here in front of us, so nice and pretty? Huh? He had an entire truck of shit and I wanna know where he got it. Meds like that don't grow on trees," the man snapped, slamming his hand against something loud and hollow. Startling him as the leader's voice boomed through the inner eves. Over-loud in a way had him scanning the tree-line. Wondering neurotically if any of the walkers had heard.
A muffled sound issued from the living. Catching his attention just in time for another voice to pipe in nastily. Looming over Paul's hunched form as he slid a hunting knife out of the sheath strapped to his thigh. Flipping it smartly, showing off, as the long blade glinted in the firelight. The man waited until Paul raised his head again before he sank down in front of him and grabbed Paul's calf. Pinning him down as he used the knife to slice through the rough material of his jeans all the way up to the knee.
"Better be careful pretty boy, or I'll punch out your other eye. Then you won't be able to see biters when they come to get'cha. That is if we haven't done 'ya in first. Just remember, I'm going easy on 'ya to start. The shit that comes next? Well- lets just say that after the whuppin' you gave Mick and Teeler here, I'm dyin' to hear you squeal."
That was when the rest of his plan fell into place like breathing. Riding the curling tide of a slow building rage as the knife carved a shallow path down the curve of Paul's right leg. Not deep enough to seriously wound, but enough to hurt as Paul's hands seized up in brutal, clenching fists above his head. Draining bloodless and pink-pale as the ropes cut into his wrists like a tearing rash.
He forced himself away from the window and started running. Exploding down the street and into the frosted-green as the spikes he'd fastened to the bottom of his boots kept him upright. Paul's name beating an unnatural tempo inside his head as his world condensed down into one, very simple purpose.
To win.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be one more to come.
