Fear and Desperation

Chapter 3

"Abigail?" a voice said. "Hey, Abigail – are you awake?"

With a groan, Abigail threw a hand over her eyes, reality slowly coming into focus, the dull ache in her upper arm still throbbing happily. Opening her eyes, she spied Sherry crouched by her side.

"Everything all right?"

"You've been out for three days," Sherry explained before smiling wryly. "Had to make sure you weren't dead."

Abigail blinked, moving up into a sitting position, squinting at the sunlight that poured through the nearby window. She also spied the makeshift sling lying over the edge of the mattress, having most likely come off in her sleep, as well as a rumpled blanket.

She furrowed her brows. "Three days?"

Sherry nodded. "Come on, get up. You need a shower."

Taking the brunette's outstretched hand, Abigail shakily got to her feet. She swayed a little before Sherry's hand quickly came to steady her.

"What time is it?" Abigail asked as they entered the bathroom.

"Nearly eight. If you hurry, we can still make it to breakfast," she replied, ushering her to turn around and face her, fingers coming to her buttons. Abigail's heart skipped as she remembered the last set of hands to reach for those buttons. Her upper arm throbbed angrily in response, and she swallowed thickly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Still a little sore."

Sherry helped her ease out of the blood-stained shirt. "I'll get some painkillers for you."

Abigail shook her head. "No, it's all right. I'll manage."

Sherry sighed. "Well, showers here are timed for exactly three minutes, so be quick. Feel free to use anything you see. I'll be outside."

The door clicked shut, and Abigail turned to face the mirror, grimacing. She felt well-rested, but the initial exhaustion would take a few more days to wear away. She silently thanked her new roommate for letting her sleep as she stepped out of the shorts, kicking them to the side and making a mental note to take them out to wash. The blue shirt was still wearable, too, she mused, rubbing the blood-stained fabric between her thumb and forefinger.

Turning to the side, she took a glance at the stitches on her upper arm. The angry red had faded to a yellowed bruise, some spots still an ugly purple from where Negan had pressed his thumb into during their conversation a few days ago. She frowned at the memory, but quickly dismissed it.

Turning the knobs, Abigail was surprised at the intense pressure of the water. Not wanting to waste any time, she carefully stepped under the hot stream and moaned. The water felt like the tears of a god, and she struggled to remember a time when she'd last had a decent shower.

Abigail shampooed her hair, ignoring the pain in her arm as she scrubbed and scrubbed, cursing at the knots that just wouldn't budge. The conditioner helped ease them a little, but she still needed to brush it; she'd need to ask Sherry to borrow one when she got out of the shower.

She'd already counted two minutes and eight seconds, so she quickly finished up with some soap, lathering the bar over her face, arms, stomach and legs. It smelled sweet, and Abigail closed her eyes with a sigh as she let the water run down her body.

The water suddenly shut off, much to her dismay, but she turned the knobs into the off position and stepped out of the shower, reaching for the towel on the counter. Abigail took another glance at herself in the mirror, and smiled a little when her overall appearance had considerably improved; the colour had returned to her cheeks, and her skin was finally free of the dirt and grime that had built up since her last proper wash.

Wrapping the towel around her chest, Abigail stepped out of the bathroom. Sherry was sitting on the bed, facing the full-length mirror that was kept by the window and running a brush through her hair.

"Enjoy yourself?" she asked, placing the brush down on her lap.

Abigail nodded. "Can't remember the last time I had a decent shower," she said, reaching over to pick up the pile of clothes Sherry must have folded for her while she was in the bathroom. She picked up the mismatched underwear and separated the rest of the items of clothing, laying them out.

Sherry turned to face the window and grant her some privacy, so Abigail quickly slipped into the dark grey t-shirt and jeans. She then reached for the towel and rubbed it over her hair, squeezing out any excess water.

"Here."

Abigail turned to see the brush handed to her. She took it and walked over to the mirror, starting at the ends and working her way up through the barrage of knots. There were only a few large ones, which Sherry helped her brush out. After a few minutes, the knots were gone, and Abigail ran a hand through her dark brown hair that looked almost black when wet. She'd almost forgotten how long it had grown since the world had turned, she mused thoughtfully, taking a strand between her fingers. It had now grown past her collarbone and over her chest, the strands already beginning to curl into that natural wave she'd inherited from her mother's side.

"Come on," Sherry said, handing her a pair of boots and flashing her a smile. "Breakfast will be over soon."

The sun was already high in the sky, bathing the grounds in a comfortable heat. People walked about – mostly men, she noticed – carrying either weapons or bags. She also spied a few women and children milling about, laughing and talking and enjoying the weather.

Abigail followed close behind Sherry as they neared the mess hall, watching as some people worked in the gardens while others were attending other various duties. She could tell that this place ran on some sort of system, much like the other communities she'd been to – but this one was different.

She noticed that most of the men tended to the weapons, while the less-able and elderly, were stationed at areas such as the laundry house, or the gardens. Some were also dressed better than others, and that little detail did not escape her.

If she needed to plan her escape, she needed to know how this place worked.

They sat down to breakfast, Sherry having grabbed each of them a tray while Abigail took a seat at one of the empty tables. Abigail's stomach whined in agony at the sight of the food; Sherry had grabbed her some bread, sliced tomato and a helping of beans with a glass of water.

"First meal is free," Sherry said, tearing at her piece of bread. "Eat up."

Abigail swallowed her mouthful of food. "What do you mean, the first meal is free?"

"The people here work on a system based on points," she explained, placing the tiny piece of bread into her mouth. "Think of it as currency. Each person starts off with one-hundred points, and they get assigned to a job. Everything costs points, but your first meal and set of clothing is free."

Abigail thought for a moment. "Even food?"

Sherry nodded. "If you want food, you need points. If you want new clothes, or weapons or medicine; you need to work to earn enough points."

She watched as Sherry aimlessly moved her fork around her own helping of beans. Seemed like a fair situation; you work to earn food and clothing. None of the other communities she'd been to had this kind of system in place. But one thought stuck out to her.

"What happens if you fall behind on points?"

Sherry's eyes didn't leave her plate. "You don't want to fall behind."

Abigail could tell that Sherry didn't want to continue the conversation, so she returned to her meal, savouring what could be the last best meal she might ever have. Abigail frowned; it would prove difficult to plan an escape if she had to spend all hours of the day working for points. She needed to eat and gain her strength back, as well as getting her hands on some meds and weaponry.

She didn't have to guess just how many points those last two items cost.

Abigail watched as people moved in and out of the mess hall, some plates fuller than others, and her stomach churned uncomfortably as she watched a mother with a limp and her small, frail child share a plate that was barely full enough to feed a dog. And then anger licked at her insides as she spied some of the men with plates that had so much food that it was ridiculous.

Clearly, there was a hierarchy here. Abigail just needed to make sure she stayed near the top.

And if that meant winning the trust of the man himself, then so be it.

Her plan may not be ideal, but if it kept her alive, she would endure. She would need to prove to Negan that she was a capable and worthy asset, but that would take a long time and passing some very difficult tests before he would even glance her way.

Abigail looked around the mess hall and caught the eye of a man with a receding hair line, harsh eyes and a thick moustache. She looked away, but he seemed to be intent on seeking her out, much to her dismay. Two other men followed at his sides as he approached her table.

"You the new kid?" the man asked gruffly, giving her a once over.

Abigail nodded.

He tilted his head toward the exit. "Come with me."

"You ever shot one of these before?"

Abigail looked at the gun in Simon's hand.

"A few times."

"Good," he said, shoving it in her hand. Abigail fumbled with it, adjusting her grip and feeling the weight of it in her hand. She looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Ain't got all day, sweetheart."

Abigail turned around and lined herself up in front of the target. Beside her, other people were taking aim and shooting, the echoes screeching across the open field and fading into the distance. The heavy object felt foreign in her grip as she raised it high with both hands, held her breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot barely grazed the side of the target and she grit her teeth as the kick-back ricocheted through her injured arm.

"Pitiful," Simon said gruffly, earning a snicker from the two men that seemed to be attached to his side. "Cup your other hand underneath and turn to the left a little. Both eyes open," he demanded.

Doing as she was told, Abigail lined up the next shot and squeezed twice. They were closer to the middle, but it was evident to everyone that she still needed more practise. Abigail rarely needed to fire a gun; being a doctor meant that people protected you. Simon didn't say anything, and instead he walked off, the two unnamed men following suit.

Pursing her lips, Abigail adjusted her grip and tried again.

"Here," a voice said, startling her. "Let me help you."

Abigail turned to her right to see a boy about her age, maybe older. He had light brown hair, and his lips were turned upward into a hesitant smile. He then came to stand behind her and adjusted her grip and her stance, but held firm to her as he instructed her to take another shot.

To her amazement, her aim had improved considerably.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem," he laughed. "I'm Tom."

She squeezed the trigger again.

"Abigail."

Tom then took his place back behind his target and fired three quick, consecutive shots, all of them landing within three inches of the painted target.

"Never seen you around here before," he said, popping out the magazine and inserting a new one with a sharp click.

"Got in a few days ago," she replied.

He laughed again. "Well, let me be the first to welcome you to the Sanctuary."

They continued to fire at their targets, Abigail concentrating on the instruction given by the boy beside her. The kick-back was something she'd need to get used to, she thought as her arm throbbed painfully. Putting down her gun, she rubbed at her arm with a sigh.

"What happened?" Tom asked, nodding toward her arm.

Abigail banished the memories that threatened to resurface. "Gunshot wound."

Tom clucked his tongue. "Hurts, don't it? Got myself shot one time, too." He then placed his gun down, and Abigail was beginning to feel exhausted already; three days of sleep and one plate of food weren't enough right now. Plus, the heat didn't help much either.

"Well, you ain't half bad," she heard Tom say, "but if you keep improving like that, and you'll be going on runs in no time."

Abigail stopped.

"Runs?"

Outside the walls?

Abigail turned to Tom, who nodded.

"Oh yeah!" he said excitedly. "If you're good enough with weapons, they'll consider taking you along," Tom explained. "The only ever take the good ones, but I've been practising every day."

One of the guards that had been standing by came around to collect the weapons, and the group of people began to follow each other out. She thought for a moment, taking in this new piece of information, but decided to play innocent if she were to gain anything else of value.

"You want to go out on runs?" she asked as they turned to leave. "Aren't they dangerous?"

Tom laughed. "Well, sure, but I need to get my points up. There's this really cool jacket I've got my eye on in the laundry house. Plus, I'm feeling cooped up in here; need to get out and run a little," he shrugged.

"Sounds fair."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

He laughed. "Don't you want to go on runs? I mean, you're getting the hang of this pretty quickly – I think you've got a real shot at being picked."

Abigail forced out a laugh. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'm a doctor," she explained as they stepped under the shade of a nearby tree. "Too risky to take me on a run."

He smirked, Abigail noticing just how boyish he looked when his lips quirked up. His hands were shoved in his pockets, eyes squinting as he turned to pretend and survey the area. "Sounds fair. Well, at least if I get hurt out there, I know you'll be here to patch me up."

Tom then turned to face her.

"Wanna grab some lunch?"

Ten days had passed since her encounter with Negan.

Abigail had seen him around the Sanctuary, but he barely spared a glance in her direction. He mostly paced about, Lucille perched lovingly on his shoulder, and she watched from the corner of her eye with disgust as men actually kneeled before him. A small voice in the back of her head reminded her that soon enough, she would have to kneel as well.

Two days ago, she'd heard from Tom during their usual stint at the target range that Negan and his men had left to go on a run that morning. Tom was upset that he hadn't been chosen this time around, but that wasn't much of a concern to her. What Abigail really wanted to know was where they went, and how long they were usually gone for.

Perhaps if she improved fast enough, then she could ask to join them. After all, Negan hadn't come for her just yet, as he said he would, so if she could sway him in any way, it was worth a shot. The opportunity to go out on a run would provide her with an insight as to where he and his people would travel, and which places they visited. With enough information about the layout of their routes, she could start planning an escape path that avoided any possible intersection.

Abigail sighed. It was definitely going to take a long time, but time was exactly what she needed at this point. It would take a long time to convince Negan of her worth, but any progress was better than nothing.

Every morning thus far, Abigail had gone to the shooting range and practised, Tom often at her side. Dr. Carson had removed the stitches on her arm the day before, and though the muscle was still tender, she was able to accomplish a lot more. And when she wasn't practising, she was helping with odd jobs around the Sanctuary – mainly in the laundry house. She earned points, but was careful about spending them, even if it meant skipping a meal or two. She was also thankful that Sherry shared her clothes with her, and wouldn't have to spend so much points on washing and clothing.

It was nearing the evening, and Abigail was heading back to her room after finishing up in the laundry house. Night was setting in, crickets humming contentedly in the patches of grass. The air was still warm, but a cool breeze was beginning to settle, chilling the sweat that stained her clothes.

As she rounded the corner, she spied the top left window that was the room she shared with Sherry; the thought of sinking into the mattress causing a smile to slip over her face. However, before she could reach the front door, she could hear voices – panicked ones.

Stopping, she spied that same mother and child she'd seen in the mess hall a few days ago. Abigail's heart sunk as she realized that the woman's limp had grown so much worse that she could barely walk; her young son – who could have been no older than five – pulling at her arm. The strain was visible on the mother's face as she suddenly stopped, and Abigail took off in a run as the mother collapsed to the ground, causing her child to scream and start crying.

Abigail skidded to a halt, crouching down.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

The mother was clutching her outstretched leg, a thick sheen of sweat bathing her forehead, making her dark hair cling to her neck and cheeks. A dirtied bandage was hiding whatever was causing her pain, but she could see the dried blood that had already stained it, along with the fresh blood that had begun to seep through.

"Sh-she's hurt!" the little boy wailed, voice thick with hysteria. "She's hurt real bad and the doctor won't fix her!"

Abigail's stomach lurched as the realization dawned on her.

Disgust rose in her throat, followed by the same licks of anger she'd felt when noticing that their plate had barely enough on it to feed one person. That familiar desire to help those in need wormed its way into her gut as the woman was mumbling something incoherent under her breath, shaking her head.

"Come with me."

"N-No!" the woman pleaded. "Please, don't." Abigail was hurt by the sheer terror that trembled by her dried lips. "I can't… I-I… don't have enough…"

"I'm not leaving you out here. Let's go. I'll take care of you."

Wrapping her arm around the woman's torso, she brought her to her feet, ignoring her pleas to let her be, and instructed the child to hold onto her t-shirt as she began to walk them both toward the infirmary.

She knocked on the door, hard.

Dr. Carson opened it, disdain evident as he seemed to recognise the woman who was draped over her shoulder.

"Can I help you?"

"Let me through," she demanded. "This woman needs help."

A hint of a smirk crawled across his lips, and were it not for the situation at hand, Abigail would have driven her fist through his nose. "Does she have enough points?"

Rage licked at her insides. "No, and I don't care. Now move."

"I can't let you," Dr. Carson said, eyes hardening. "It's against the rules."

Abigail bit back a frustrated growl. "Screw the rules; and she can take my points for all I care. I'll deal with Negan myself. Now, move."

They held one another's gaze for a moment more before Dr. Carson sighed and eventually stepped to the side. Abigail roughly pushed past him and helped the woman to the bed, the child coming to grasp his mother's hand. She tenderly ran her hand through her son's thick hair, whispering to him in her native tongue – Spanish, she realized.

Dr. Carson stood by the door, intent on keeping an eye on her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glowering. Abigail completely ignored him as she began to rummage through the drawers and cupboards, remembering where he had grabbed everything from when she'd woken up that day. She found cotton pads, antiseptic, stitches and thread; she even managed to spy a half-opened casing of antibiotics on the counter. She couldn't find the numbing serum, though, and cursed under her breath.

Turning to flash a glare at Dr. Carson, Abigail carefully placed the woman's foot up on the bed. The woman hissed in pain, and Abigail gently shushed her.

"I'm going to remove the bandage and clean the wound. It's going to sting a little."

The woman nodded feverishly, the sweat beginning to drip down her temples.

And so, Abigail began to peel the soiled bandage from around her foot, the clotted blood peeling away and revealing stores of pus and agitated skin. The anger that still simmered in her belly now clawed for a way out.

This poor woman's leg is now infected, and what's worse is that this could have easily been treated a long time ago. How could they let this happen to her, especially when she has a child to feed and take care of?

Fighting the urge to throw something, Abigail began to clean the wound, carefully removing the dried and fresh blood while using then needle to release the built-up pus, wiping it away with a fresh cotton pad after every gentle squeeze. The child's sobbing had now quieted to soft hiccups, his mother' hand still stroking his hair.

After fifteen minutes, the wound was thoroughly cleaned, and Abigail was now wrapping her foot in a clean bandage. Once it was secured, Abigail went to the sink and filled up a glass of water and handed her two pills.

"Here, take two of these. It'll only help for the infection, I'm afraid. You'll still be in pain for a few days."

The woman downed the pills, relief ripe in her warm eyes. Abigail helped her off the bed, and the woman then cupped Abigail's cheeks with both hands, which were shaking with gratitude.

"Thank you… thank you… thank you," she whispered, and Abigail smiled, hand coming up to gently grip her wrist, but didn't speak.

The woman then left the room, child by her side, Dr. Carson barely leaving enough room for them to squeeze by.

Abigail pointedly ignored him as she went about cleaning up the soiled cotton wipes and dirty bandages. The silence was heavy.

"You shouldn't have done that," Dr. Carson whispered.

"She was hurt," Abigail bit out, roughly tossing the waste into the bin. "I couldn't just stand by and let her suffer."

"She fell behind on points."

Abigail let out a frustrated growl and turned on her heel. "Are you kidding me? That is bullshit and you know it!" she exclaimed hotly, the injustice rising like bile in her throat. "We… are… doctors. We don't just stand by and let people suffer like that."

Dr. Carson suddenly stepped toward her.

"Look," he said, voice low. "I don't like this anymore than you do, okay? Do you think I enjoy turning away patients?"

"Could have fooled me."

His jaw twitched and he looked away. "I wanted to help her."

"Then why?"

"It's not me – it's Negan. There are rules around here, Abigail – and you would do well to remember them. We might not like it, but we have to deal with it."

Abigail's eyes stung, but she willed away the tears. She didn't want to admit it, but he was right – and in hindsight, she knew that what she was doing would eventually end in a conversation with Negan, possibly even Lucille, but Abigail couldn't help herself. Someone was suffering, and she would rather die than let someone else suffer – especially when it could so easily be fixed.

But Abigail had gone and not only blatantly broken the rules, she'd dismissed Negan's authority in the process.

And now she was sure as Hell going to pay for it.

So... who here is still a hot mess after yesterday's episode? *raises hand*

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter because I had fun writing it! I do hope that I'm not rushing, nor taking this too slow. I want a slow progression, but an interesting one - which is what you're all going to get. So, what do you think is going to happen to Abigail? How do you think Negan will react? And what did you guys think of Tom? I have so many lovely plans in the future, my lovelies! Stay tuned!