Fear and Desperation
Chapter 6
What is that smell?
Abigail opened her eyes and saw nothing but darkness. It stretched on forever, a deep black void of complete nothingness. Everything was quiet, the air so unbearably still that she could hear her own blood rushing in her ears, her veins throbbing with each pulse. Wriggling her toes, she could feel the ground beneath her feet; she brought in a deep breath and heard the air rush into her lungs, but sight was still completely lost to her.
Bravely, she called out into the darkness, her voice ringing out before fading into a haunting echo that made her gut momentarily clench with fear. Her call was met with that same stifling silence, yet the smell – so achingly familiar – was only getting stronger, but she couldn't pinpoint its location. Her eyes failed to adjust, the inability to focus making her head swim. Why couldn't she see anything?
Where am I?
Cautiously, Abigail took a step forward, and then another. She held her hands out in front of her for security – or defence, whichever need would come first – her feet shuffling in slow, shallow steps.
Again, Abigail decided to call out.
She stopped abruptly when nothing came out.
What the…?
Hand coming to her throat, Abigail stopped walking and called out again, but no voice echoed, not even a squeak flitted through the stillness. She could feel the thrum of her vocal chords as she cried out again and again, louder and harder, throat ripping as she screamed against the darkness – but still no sound.
Abigail then coughed, hands coming to cover her mouth and nose, nose wrinkling in disgust. That smell – it was getting stronger by the second.
Suddenly, as if flicking on a light switch, her surroundings came into full view like a fierce knock to the side of the head. Abigail blinked rapidly, shielding her eyes from the onslaught of the bright light as she tried to adjust her gaze. She very nearly jumped out of her skin as a scream echoed, quickly followed by another. Shrill, panicked voices suddenly overcame the air, hands coming to protect her ears as she squeezed her eyes shut.
The screaming only grew louder, more intense, and Abigail opened her eyes, surprised to find herself on her knees. There was that bright light, the same shrill voices still piercing the air; that awful smell, and—
Blood.
There was so much blood.
Abigail's eyes went wide, time and everything around her coming to a complete halt, panic reaching in and gripping her chest as she looked at her upturned hands, which were shaking and stained that deep, ugly red that constantly haunted her dreams. Yet despite its warm, sticky consistency, Abigail felt cold – so utterly and horribly cold. She then looked up and around and saw to her horror that it was everywhere – harsh splatters painted the walls in panicked streaks while darker pools dotted the floor; that harsh tang of copper burning the insides of her nose and making her eyes water.
Everything around her was a hideous contrast of red and white and screaming voices that seemed close yet so far away at the same time – almost muffled. Someone was screaming at her – or, wait, was that her own voice? – but she couldn't make out the words. However, what really made her body go rigid with that icy coldness was the aching familiarity of this place. She remembered the panic, the fear that consumed her every fibre, her hands pressed together and furiously pumping—
With a jolt, Abigail woke up.
She stayed on her back, absolutely rigid, breathing in harshly through her nose as she waited for the horrific images to fade away. She clenched her fists, desperate to control her breathing. Her chest was tight and temples were pulsing hotly; when was the last time she'd dreamed so vividly?
After a few moments, Abigail let out a long sigh. With great effort, she slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position. The familiar kiss of handcuffs wasn't lost on her, but she ignored them, instead letting her eyes fall to her upturned hands, which were still coated in blood from her perilous escape from the backyard shed.
She flexed her fingers, watching as the dried blood of the undead cracked and peeled, revealing her skin underneath. Hot tears suddenly stung at the corners of her eyes, but she sucked in a shaky breath and cast her gaze to the ceiling, folding her arms close to her stomach.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
But the tears quickly fell, despite her willingness to keep them in. The first tear trickled down over her cheek and to her chin while the second seeped into the corner of her dried mouth. Abigail sniffled and let her head hang low, gritting her teeth against the sobs that threatened to break free. She hunched over, cradling her hands and arms against her belly, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Abigail sat like that for a moment, her sniffles and choked breaths echoing throughout the room until she regained control over her emotions. She refused to cry if she could help it, but wouldn't deny the immediate relief it brought; the tension in her shoulders eased somewhat, and the hot pulsing of her temples began to slowly ebb away.
Blinking through the tears, Abigail noticed that her leg had been patched up while she'd been unconscious, though the soiled bandage told her that it hadn't been changed in hours, perhaps even days. She ran her fingers over the wound, wincing at the memory of Negan shooting her like an animal and leaving her to die. Abigail could feel the tentative licks of rage that boiled underneath her skin, but they were quickly extinguished by her exhaustion.
Abigail brought the knee of her uninjured leg up to her cheek, letting out another sigh.
She couldn't remember much of how she managed to escape – it was all a blur. All Abigail could remember was the adrenaline as she thrashed her way through the undead, swinging her makeshift weapon around in a blind fury. And while she'd been certain that one of them had bitten her at one point, a quick inspection of her arms and legs assured her that her skin was untouched – for the most part, at least. After battling through the horde, she then began the long, tiring journey back to the Sanctuary, which felt like days, wherein it was only mere hours, and she lost count of the amount of times she blacked out and nearly collapsed onto the road. But somehow, by some miracle, she'd made it back.
To him; to Negan.
Abigail then remembered the chilling look on Negan's face as she brought herself at the gate; the only vivid piece of information that she could recollect. There was… something awful in those dark eyes that unnerved her down to her very core. Pleased wasn't even the right word to describe how he looked; it was a perverted and twisted mix of satisfaction and triumph, and it was the last thing she remembered before everything had gone black.
She shivered, despite the warm temperature of the room. What would he do to her now? What possible use could he have for her after all this? It was a question that she knew would be answered sooner rather than later, and the anticipation made her gut clench uncomfortably. She was sure that she'd eliminated any possibility of gaining his trust for a long time – and that was if she managed to stay alive for that long, or if he was kind enough to keep her alive for that long, anyway.
The possibility of making her become a wife to punish her briefly crossed her mind, but Abigail quickly pushed away the dark thoughts of Negan pressed on top of her and turned her attention to the handcuffs on her wrist.
Well, clearly, I can't be trusted.
Looking to the window, she guessed it would have to be somewhere in the late afternoon, judging by the semi-transparent light on the far wall and the warm temperature of the room, but the lack of a clock or calendar meant that Abigail had no idea how much time had passed since she left with Negan that day. The rest of the room was empty – not a cupboard or piece of equipment in sight. A lone chair sat by the foot of her bed, its leather pad worn and frayed, and Abigail had to wonder who would be coming to visit her.
Sherry – possibly – she thought, but Abigail wasn't entirely sure if her roommate even knew where she was, let alone what had happened to her. The only other person she could think of was Tom, but the clear look of betrayal on his face during their last encounter told her that he wouldn't exactly be keen on seeing her any time soon. Other than the chair and her bed, there was nothing else.
Abigail sighed and let her eyes fall to her bandaged leg. She suddenly realized how thirsty she was, licking her dried lips in an attempt to moisten them and wincing at the taste of copper; she forgot that she was still coated in the blood of the undead, the only clean part of her body being the bandaged area on her leg. The smell of sweat and dried blood made her scrunch her nose, but she would have to endure until she could take a shower – whenever that would be, she thought dismally.
Stifling a yawn, the brunette laid back down on the bed, exhausted. Despite the uncertainty of her future, Abigail needed to rest; she'd need all the strength she could get if she were to be facing Negan once more.
When Abigail woke, it was still daylight outside – much to her dismay. She let her head thump back down onto the uncomfortable bed with a sigh. How long had she been asleep for? It felt like only hours, but it could have been easily more than a day as well, and without a clock, it was just impossible to tell. And just how long were they planning to keep her in here, anyway?
With a grunt, Abigail pulled herself into a sitting position. She was positively parched, feeling as if she had cotton in her mouth, her temples pulsing with the impending and familiar headache of dehydration. Feeling no more rested than the last time she was awake, Abigail decided that she couldn't take another minute in the room, and carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed, hands coming to grip the edge.
She doubted that the door would be unlocked, knowing how things worked around here, and the more rational part of her mind tried to convince her that she should just stay awake until someone eventually came to check on her, but she nonetheless planted her bare feet on the ground and let her eyes fall to the door.
Moving slowly, Abigail eventually reached the door, her injured leg giving her surprisingly little trouble. But as she reached for the handle, it suddenly began to turn.
Stumbling backwards as the door swung open, Abigail fell onto the floor, hard.
Cursing under her breath, Abigail looked up to see who had knocked her onto her ass, only to find her eyes locked with a set of familiar dark brown.
"Glad to see you're up," Negan commented, giving her a once over. "Get enough rest?"
Abigail just sat there, frozen, heart hammering in her chest. She hadn't expected to see him so damn soon – and just why was he here, anyway?
When she didn't answer – out of shock, if anything – Negan, to her utter surprise, held his gloved hand out to her.
Abigail couldn't help the distrusting frown that passed over her brow as she remained on the floor. A moment of silence passed, Negan's hand still outstretched to her. She let her eyes fall to his hand, then up to his eyes, and back to his hand once again. Sensing no ulterior motives, and coupled with the desire to get out of the room, Abigail carefully reached her hand out, slipping it into his own.
His hand dwarfed her own, and with little effort, he hauled her to her feet. She stumbled slightly, his hand quickly coming to her arm to steady her. A thousand questions were running through her mind – why was he suddenly helping her, why the lack of malice in his tone, and, more importantly, what was he was going to do with her?
She wanted to ask, the questions on the tip of her tongue, but this time she listened to the more rational part of her mind and kept her mouth shut. She swallowed thickly and exited the room in silence, Negan's hand splayed on her back, his fingertips guiding her left and right with gentle pushes as they made their way to the more familiar part of the Sanctuary. Abigail could have sighed in relief as she recognised some of the rooms and hallways, but it did little to quell her thoughts as they made their way to another building – one she hadn't been in before. She was overcome with an insurmountable amount of dread that coiled hotly in the pits of her stomach like an angry snake, and she began to sweat, already feeling the palms of her hands going clammy.
They walked for a few more minutes, Abigail keeping her eyes intently focused ahead of her, before they came to a stop in front of a large set of dark wooden doors that seemed out of place compared to the rest of the Sanctuary. The dread thickened and coiled even deeper.
Abigail flinched as his arm reached past her to open the door, and her mouth nearly slackened in shock.
The room was something she hadn't expected, the bed being the first thing that caught her eye. It was large and decorated with a plush looking grey comforter and half a dozen pillows. The walls were also the same shade of dark grey, as was the matching couch set that sat a few feet in front of her. To put it simply, the room appeared to be completely unaware of what was going on just outside these walls.
Despite her initial shock, the realization that this must be Negan's room suddenly dawned on her, and she stiffened considerably as the man himself walked past her, leaning Lucille against the bed. He then turned to face her, eyes sparkling with mirth as he took in her current state.
"Lighten up, kid. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now." Negan then placed himself down on the couch that was facing her. He leaned back and let his elbows rest on the low back, posture relaxed – which only served to fray on her nerves.
"Then why haven't you?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
Negan regarded her for a moment. "Let's get to know you a little better before we get into that," he replied. "But first, get your ass into the bathroom and clean yourself up – ain't gonna have you messin' up my nice couches."
Abigail nearly whined at the possibility of a shower – but to shower in his bathroom? She would rather set herself on fire.
He must have read her thoughts. "Don't be such a princess," he snapped. "Now get your ass in there before I make you. Unless you need help getting undressed?"
She didn't miss the suggestive drawl in his voice, and Abigail quickly walked by in a huff and entered the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Leaning back against the door, she sunk to the floor with a shaky sigh, hands coming to comb furiously through her matted hair.
Abigail was hopelessly confused, to put it simply. Negan was an incredibly difficult man to read, and now, this complete one-eighty personality flip had her head swimming; gone was the malice she had come to associate with him, and it was replaced by something that made her nervous. She sighed again, furiously rubbing her eyes with the base of her palms, grimacing at the dried blood that cracked underneath the pressure.
She refused to undress, uncertain if the man in the other room were waiting right behind the door, or if he were still sitting on the couch where she'd left him. The very real possibility of an attempt to rape her caused tears to spring to the corners of her eyes, and Abigail brought her hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs. His offer to help her undress had only made the possibility grow more likely, and Abigail quickly scrambled to her feet, crying in relief as there appeared to be a lock on the bathroom door.
After checking the lock three times, Abigail walked over to the sink, hands coming to grasp the rim, knuckles burning white. She was half-tempted to walk back out, still dirty, but that would only serve to agitate Negan – and after all that had happened, that was the last thing she wanted to do. But the fear of being caught off-guard and overpowered while in the shower cemented her feet to the ground, legs growing weak and chin trembling.
However, she really needed a shower – she felt dirty and disgusting, and for some bizarre reason, Negan was offering her his own resources without so much as a second thought.
After a few minutes, Abigail managed to compose herself, the coil of dread still wound tightly in her gut. Her nerves were positively shot now, and she wondered if she even had the strength to scrub the blood and dirt from her body. Looking around, she spied a clean towel and a set of neatly folded clothes on the counter as well as a first-aid kit. She sighed. Negan had most certainly planned to interrogate her, and it appeared that he wouldn't be letting her out of his sight any time soon.
She turned on the water and moved back to the bathroom door, pressing her ear against the wood, straining to hear any kind of movement on the other side. After thirty or so seconds, Abigail concluded that he hadn't moved from his place on the couch, and was now determined to scrub herself clean in record time so that she wouldn't be caught unaware.
The shower, while effective in rinsing her body of the blood and grime, did little to soothe her frayed nerves. Carefully, she unwrapped the bandage on her leg, wringing it out as she gently scrubbed away the dried blood around the stitches. Once the last of the soap was washed down the drain, Abigail shut of the water and wrapped the towel around her body, quickly stepping out to redress her wound. It took only a few minutes, and she dried the excess water before putting on the clothes provided for her – a simple pair of slightly tattered black jeans and a faded blue button up shirt with sleeves. A pair of shoes also lay next to the toilet, and she slipped them on, securing and resecuring the laces.
Taking a glance at her reflection, Abigail ran the drier parts of the towel through her damp hair and prepared to exit the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door, eyes immediately latching onto the back of Negan's head – thankful that he'd remained exactly where she'd left him. He seemed content to sit there, not bothering to look behind him as she exited the bathroom and reluctantly headed back to the couch.
She felt his eyes wandering over her freshly washed form, but she ignored the uncomfortable tingle that raced down her spine and met his gaze. The indifference in his eyes made her nervous.
Negan then leaned forward, reaching for a decanter and pouring its honey-coloured contents into two tumblers that she hadn't noticed were there before. He took one for himself and brought the glass to his lips, gaze still fixed on her.
"Thirsty?"
Deciding that to obey would get her out of here faster, Abigail reached for the glass, trying to steady her shaking hand. When she mimicked his action, and brought the glass to her lips, the familiar sting of alcohol filtering into her nose, she watched as he downed his in one quick motion and set the glass back down onto the table, breathing out a sigh. Abigail copied him, grimacing as the liquid burned down her throat and did absolutely nothing to satisfy her thirst. But he knew that, of course.
Abigail kept the glass in her lap, finding security in holding onto something that could also be a potential weapon if their little chat suddenly went sour. Her thumbnail picked over the intricate carving of the glass as she waited for him to speak.
What are you going to do to me?
He seemed to be mulling over his next choice of words as he studied her, as if trying to read her thoughts. She must have been sitting ramrod straight, positively rigid, since he broke their gaze and let out a low chuckle.
"Relax, sweetheart. Like I said, if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. Hey, I could have killed you the second you walked in, or just now in the bathroom – but then where's the fun in that?" He paused, as if waiting for s reaction. "That being said," he went on, "I want to get to know you a little better, Abigail," he said suddenly, leaning forward to that his elbows rested on his knees.
Not exactly the words she'd been expecting.
"Why?" she asked, unable to help herself.
"You're a doctor, right?" he said, ignoring her question.
Abigail pursed her lips and nodded.
Negan poured himself another drink. "Qualified?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Why?"
"The world turned three days before my final medical licence exam," she explained.
Negan seemed to consider her answer. "How old are you?" Clearly, he wasn't willing to trust her story just yet, despite it being true.
"Twenty-five."
"You skipped a few years then, huh?" he said, more to himself than to her, downing his glass.
Abigail didn't answer, and let her gaze fall to her hands, the effort of holding his gaze wearing her down both physically and emotionally. But she wasn't sure what kind of information he was after, or what exactly he wanted to know, but she remained on her toes and would do her best to keep her answers as vague yet informative as possible.
She just wanted to get out of here; the pressure of his gaze and the scrutiny of his questions were beginning to be exhausting.
"Where did you go when the world turned?"
Abigail lifted her gaze to meet his. A simple enough question, she supposed.
"Somewhere, anywhere safe," she shrugged. "It all happened so fast; I don't really remember much of how it all went down, or how we managed to get away."
That piqued his interest. "You had others?"
"I did," she replied. "They're gone now."
Silence fell over the room, and Abigail found the dread beginning to slip away. Whatever his plan was, it didn't involve hurting her physically – that much was certain – but why all the questions?
"You married?"
Abigail stilled, but quickly recovered.
"No, I'm not."
"Boyfriend?
"No."
Negan chuckled. "Ever been with a man before, then?"
Abigail glared at him, and he laughed. "Easy, sweetheart. Just having a little fun, is all. Yeesh, I can almost feel those daggers you're shootin' at me." He laughed again. "You and Carson look like you both could use a good screw. Are all doctors this uptight?"
"Just the ones that get shot and left to die," she bit out.
"Shit, maybe we should play a little Doctor ourselves right now," he quipped, ignoring her bite. "What do you say, sweetheart? Want to take care of me for the night?"
Abigail could feel her anger rising, and she slammed her glass down onto the table. "I say that if you've got nothing else interesting to ask me, then I'm leaving. I'm not going to sit here and take this from you." She then moved to get up, but his hand on her arm startled her.
"Calm the hell down," he said, voice dangerously low. "You don't get to decide when I'm finished with you – I do." Negan then released his grip. "Sit down."
Doing as she was told, Abigail reluctantly sat back down on the chair. She watched as he poured himself yet another drink, eyes focused on her as he drank it slowly this time.
"Tell you what," he said, placing the glass down, "I'll let you ask me one question – and one question only – provided you let me ask one first, and then you're free to leave."
Abigail took a calming breath. "Fine. What is it?"
The amused twinkle reappeared in Negan's eye, and it made Abigail uncomfortable. He seemed pleased with himself as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, perfectly poised to voice his next question.
"You ever lost a patient?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Abigail went still, and horrifyingly so; the flashing images of red and white returning and making her vision swim.
Negan watched as her eyes suddenly clouded over, her anger immediately disappearing. It was as if someone flicked a switch, and he knew that he'd struck a nerve. He watched as her eyes fell to her lap, her hair falling in front of her face, shielding her from his view. A moment passed before she looked up to meet his gaze, coldness in her eyes.
"No." Her tone was steady, and they both knew she was lying, but he could practically see the truth hidden in her eyes.
"Bullshit," he hissed. "Don't lie to me; how many have you lost?"
She looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "You said one more question. I answered your question, now just drop it." Her voice was trembling now, and he would admit he was a little stunned at her desperation to end the topic of conversation, but he couldn't help himself. She looked determined to hold her resolve, but he could see that it was crumbling fast.
"You're not exactly in any position to be making demands, Abigail," he sneered. "We both know you're lying, so how about you cut the crap and tell me right now: how many."
He could see her eyes glisten with tears, yet she held firm. Abigail appeared to hesitate before she answered.
"I told you the truth," she lied again, chin tilting up slightly.
Negan scoffed, voice growing deeper, more menacing. "You can sit there all damn day and lie to me, Abigail, but—"
"—Leave it alone, Negan!" she cried, voice cracking as she visibly recoiled from him. "I told you that—"
"Don't lie to me, Abigail," he said, voice carrying over her own. "Tell me how—"
"—I told you, I—!"
"—You're lying!" he hollered, slamming his hands down onto the table with a deafening bang, and she physically jolted at the impact. A moment passed before her eyes went wide. Abigail then covered her face with both hands, elbows coming to rest on her knees as she leaned forward.
Negan removed his hands from the table, watching as her shoulders trembled.
Abigail clenched her eyes shut, hands sliding from her face to rest on her forehead, fingers wringing into her hair. She kept her eyes firmly planted to the floor, and took in a shaky breath. Seconds ticked by slowly, the silence palpable.
"One," she suddenly piped up in a soft voice, eyes still fixed on the ground. Abigail then looked up to meet Negan's unidentifiable gaze. "Just… just one."
A cruel smirk peeled across Negan's lips, clearly pleased with himself. "Now, was that so hard?" he asked, reaching over to pour himself a fourth drink, and a second one for her. She refused it, instead letting her eyes fall to her hands once more while he drank.
"So, what's your question?" he asked after a beat of silence.
Abigail looked exhausted, defeated even. She had several questions that she wanted to ask, but opted to stick with the easiest one. After all, he got what he wanted, and now she just wanted to get out of here.
"Why didn't you just kill me?"
"You tell me," he replied. "Anyone else would have ended up as one of those dead pricks, but you," he said, pointing a finger at her, "you didn't. And I want to know how a skinny little nobody fought her way through a horde of those dead bastards with a dead leg and managed to drag her sorry ass back here all in the same night."
Abigail shrugged, but curious of his sudden train of thought, despite what had just happened. "Luck, I suppose."
She flinched at the sound of Negan's laugh. "Luck ain't got nothin' to do with it, sweetheart. See, you got something that some of my men don't even have – guts – and that's something we are in short supply of. Not a lot of people could have survived what you did. Hell, I bet half my shit that even some of my own men would have ended up as one of those dead pricks."
Abigail looked up at him. "What's your point?"
"My point is, Abigail, that you don't go down easy. I won't lie and say I know why that is, but it is what it is. You're a tough little shit, and I think you're going to fit in just fine."
PHEW.
Firstly, I am sorry for the lack of an update last week – the lack of Negan in the previous two episodes left my muse drier than a nun's vag. Secondly, I wasn't quite sure how to end this chapter, but I feel as though I've left it at a good enough place – I legit just smashed out a 4000-word assignment today, so I was surprised to also smash out a chapter as long as this! Also, I hope you enjoyed the interaction between Negan and Abigail!
Thirdly, I'm going away on the 19th of December! I'll be heading overseas to Canada and the U.S. for about a month in total, so just a heads up that I may not be able to post an update while I'm gone. But inspiration tends to strike me at the most inconvenient times, so you guys might get lucky! I also plan to use my time on the long flight over and back to plan the rest of my story so that when I return, I can update on a regular schedule for you lovely people!
As always, leave me your thoughts! Take care!