Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This exists purely because I was challenged to write something of this ilk. And I think I broke my soul in the process, just saying.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore, suicide, canon character death and mature content.
Triage
Chapter Two
When everything had fallen apart, he'd been sitting cross-legged on top of his dryer. It had been a million fucking degrees out and he'd been wearing his oldest, rattiest pair of boxers, hips moving rhythmically in time with the vibrations as he waited for his jeans to cycle through.
He'd always hated laundry day.
There had been a movie on in the other room, some ancient pop-corn flick he'd already seen half a dozen times. But with the case of beer and fresh carton of cigarettes he'd picked up on his way home from work, spending his Friday night in a murky, beer-addled haze was actually starting looking remarkably attractive.
It wasn't like he had anything better to do anyway.
But then the movie had cut off – switching to static as he'd cocked his head, curious. And suddenly, it wasn't just on the national news anymore, the infection, it was on the county's dinky little news station, not fifty miles from his house.
The lights had flickered as he'd padded down the hall, bare feet sticking to the linoleum as he cursed Georgia, heat waves, and broken air conditioners all in one fell swoop. Already in a mood, he snagged a beer from the counter and took a long, unfettered drag. He made it to the living room just in time to read the captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
…White House evacuated, border control counter measures fail, military pulling back from strategic points around Los Angeles, Boston, New Orleans and Manhattan. The President has imposed martial law to begin tonight at sun-down. Any citizen found outside after curfew will be subject to arrest without due process. Stay in your homes. Avoid contact with the infected. Avoid public gatherings. If possible stay off the roads, avoid subways and bus terminals east and south of the state line. Maintain law and order. Looters will be prosecuted. Government estimates that thirty percent of the populace has-…
He remembered sitting down on the couch, hard. The turnaround had been sudden. Last he'd heard, the government – the military – whoever - had finally managed to get a handle on it. No one knew how it had started. At first no one had even paid any attention to it. But then it was real, impossible, yet still plastered across the front page. It was gruesome and in your face, fodder for the media, comedians, politicians, religious types – it didn't matter. It felt like an ill-timed joke, despite the news reports – the footage. Something late night talk show hosts made off-colour jokes about, pretending that the footage reeling across the TV from dawn till dusk was nothing more than an elaborate hoax – a case of Swine flu that had been blown completely out of proportion. Only it wasn't. And by the time the country realized it, the virus, the infection, had spread across the nation, then the world – raging across state-lines like wildfire, so fast, so devastating, that it'd eventually earned the name.
And it was there, in his house, separated from everyone and everything by close to sixty acres of bone-dry farmland, that he watched as his state, his hometown, tore themselves apart.
And weirdly enough, that had been the last time he'd truly been alone. Ironic.
He swallowed and tasted bile, coming back to himself as a light breeze raked through the canopy overhead – a mess of crowded evergreens and patient maples. The edges of his vision blurred, breaths slurred, thick with phlegm as he forced himself to breathe normally.
His sheath was empty. Where was his god damned knife?
His stomach roiled, forehead beaded with sweat, like he was five seconds away from spewing his guts. His shook it off. He had more important things to worry about. He felt the ground around him, one hand inching across the sod, blind, tripping over his empty quiver, and then the torn flaps of his vest as he tried to find it. Part of him wondered why he even bothered as his sticky fingers came back empty.
But he knew why. He wasn't going to turn. He wasn't going to get back up and-
His side screamed. He didn't know how much time he had left, how long it had been since he'd been bitten. And the others – where were the others? Heat fanned off his skin like a furnace – limbs jumbled, unable to get comfortable as he squirmed into the undergrowth, trying to dig himself into the dirt, to cover himself and escape from-
He rolled onto his uninjured side just in time to avoid puking all over himself. His hair was damp and stringy at his temples as he retched – heaving again and again until he came up empty. Until tears were streaming unhindered down his cheeks – body electric – dying as he spat up a mouthful of red and god only knows what else.
The next thing he was aware of was being on his back again, one hand on his chest as he squinted up into the sky and tried to remember how to breathe.
He'd never felt pain like this before, and he was no stranger to the sensation. It was ironic in a way, being brought down by so small a thing. Something you couldn't even see. Something you couldn't fight. It wasn't right. It wasn't-
But then again, when had the world ever played fair?
A/N #2: This is my first attempt at such a genre, so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I am thinking there will be one or two more chapters after this. The next chapter should be up soon!
"Death ends a life, not a relationship." ― Mitch Albom, (from: Tuesdays With Morrie)