Disclaimer: I do not own any of the property associated with TWD comic book or AMC's creation of the same name (cause they really are two very different beasts at this point) I do own this story line and the OC's since I came up with them; but I make no profit from this insanity and anyone who plans to sue me will basically get some used cookware and an angry toddler who is currently covered in grape jelly...

Notes: It's Spaghetti Tuesday! (Update TIME!)

Thanks to Beta Angelinaa and to the readers, reviewers you guys are all awesome!

Kudos to PumpkinMama for coining the term Finryl! *dies* How did I not think of that!? I Love It! 3

Chapter Five

It's been less than 72 hours.

I don't know what else to do. Time is running out.

I stand beside Carl's bed, my fingers posed over the roller stopping the flow of fluid from continuing down the line into his IV. My eyes drift to the heart monitor again, slide over his pale patchy skin, sallow cheeks. His responses are slowing, his fever spiked once more dangerously high no matter what I do to stop it.

He's dying; and he's doing it far too quickly for me to figure this out.

Carl is slipping away right in front of me. Nothing I've tried seems to slow his downward spiral for long. I've merely prolonged what is starting to feel like the inevitable…

I tilt my chin, stare up at the blurry square tiles over my head fighting the burn of tears and roll the stopper up before pulling my hand away quickly lest I can change my mind.

It's time for a Hail Mary; because that's all this is.

I don't know what else to do. This is a complete stab in the dark.

If the infection doesn't kill him in the next hour. Whatever mystery compound is in my bloodstream that I can't identify certainly will…

I close my eyes for a moment wondering if I should have picked up the Walkie the other day; begged them to bring Judith here so I could see if the same compound is in her blood…maybe it's the answer… but there's no time; and I doubt Rick would willingly hand over Judith for me to run even a simple blood test on.

If he saw me again he'd probably shoot me between the eyes for taking his son.

My eyes drift to the thick liquid sliding theatrically slow down the narrow clear tube seeming to crawl and at the same time race toward the catheter in his elbow where it colors the cap as it passes; slides into his vein and I can't take it back now—it's done.

All I can do is watch and wait. Pray, for all the good it will do.

I back into the chair at his bedside, press my palms over my eyes and lean forward feeling sick while I wait for his heart beat to slow; or start to race—wait for alarms to start blaring telling me I've killed him; or the infection has… At this point I won't really know I guess which was the final catalyst, but either way I'll have to live with the blame; the ever pressing guilt of not being able to save another life.

It's my own private repeating nightmare in this world.

My Mom and Tobin…Phil…Abby they're all dead. Even Thomas who seemed so strong and capable when we met, I was certain he'd survive; at least for a little while… but he died too…right after he let me go.

He snuck me out in the middle of the night; told me to run…and run I did—without looking back, terrified they'd find me again. Two days later I saw him; dead.

I should have taken him with me, should have stayed to help him fight…I should have done something other then what I did which was ru;, just run away—I saved myself; and he died.

They killed him for letting me go. It was obvious from the way he was strung up. It was an early lesson on the potential evil mankind would accept in the name of fear, and hatred and survival...

It became one of my first real encounters with such vile acts—sadly it wouldn't be the last, far from it; and the lessons only got harder and tougher to swallow as time wore on.

So many faces… and names and sometimes I just wish it would end.

I pull my knees up onto the chair wrap my arms around my shins clasping my hands over my elbows and rest my face against my knee closing my eyes.

I stay that way for a long time listening to the slow beep of his heart rate; praying silently—anxiously to a God I'm not even sure exists anymore; not after all the horror I've seen.

Eventually my exhaustion and the steady beep lulls me into a fitful sleep.

Hours later I jerk awake in panic the crick in my neck something outrageous. I struggle to lift my head, focus on the monitors beside me startled and elated to see he's still alive… and not only that: he's improved. And it shouldn't be possible, it's ridiculous, but there it is. And I'm not one to question results.

I pour over the books I've gathered again now spread across nearly every flat surface in the room. Books stacked on the rolling table weighing it down so it barely rolls without squeaking in protest and gathering in an ever growing tower near the door almost as tall as my knees.

My jerking distracted movements nearly ripping pages from their bindings in my haste to turn them faster eyes scanning; searching: desperate to understand how that could have worked…what it means…

Two hours later when his vitals decline again I return to the lab downstairs, repeat the process even though pulling that much blood again so soon makes me so dizzy I puke into the sink retching and dry heaving for five minutes while the blood spins down.

I barely make it back up the stairs without blacking out, desperately wishing the elevator worked sweating and breathing much too fast.

My fingers shake when I hang the bag nearly missing the hook. It takes me two tries to puncture the cap with the line; to get my fingers to cooperate and stop shaking long enough to screw the cover into place.

I open the line and stagger backwards, all but collapsing onto my stretcher with a grunt that's neither lady-like nor particularly dignified and if it was a fluke; if this sends him into seizures or spiraling into shock there's absolutely nothing I can do because I'm so weak I can't get the room into focus… I can barely make out his pulse and latest blood pressure rating from the screen everything is so fuzzy.

I close my eyes against the spinning tilt of the room and breathe slowly though my mouth trying to keep the waves of nausea at bay—there's nothing in my stomach to throw up anyways.

When I wake up several hours later, my stomach and sense of balance protests even the small turn of my head to check Carl's vitals. I carefully raise my hand and knead the muscles of my still aching neck with my fingertips as firmly as I can manage in my current state while I staring groggily at the screen on the far side of the dang room.

I need to check him.

I drag myself up with exaggerated slowness; trying to fight the darkness curling around the edges of my vision. It takes me what feels like eons to cross the short distance of the room to his bedside. But it's completely worth the journey.

Carl's fever is almost gone, his skin no longer slick with sweat; his color returning.

I need to repeat the dosage; but I'm not positive with the way I feel that that is even possible, that doing so won't cause me to pass out completely or go into shock. I already feel like I'm going to die, wavering on my feet barely maintain my balance.

I need to eat…and rest and then maybe in the morning I can spare half a dose to give him.

Food and sleep, that will help.

I force myself to eat a small bag of stale pretzels, then unsalted peanuts because everything that's sweet lately seems to only make my stomach feel worse and then I choke down two juice boxes. My stomach twists at the combination but it stays down. I barely make it back to my own bed before I start to feel very faint again.

I lie down tucking my legs up into a ball I can hug against my chest breathing slowly still fighting the tilting buckle of the room around me closing my eyes tight hoping to stop the disorientation if I can't see it.

It doesn't help, I just continue to spin and jerk certain at any moment I'm going to tumble to the ground falling off my bed and spinning away into the angry darkness.

Eventually the wild movement turns into a more gentle rolling wave that lulls me into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

Two hours after the third treatment the following morning when I drag myself up from my bed to check him I find that Carl's fever is gone.

I still don't know what the Hell it is, can't isolate it; can't pin point what's causing it…

But when I run Carl's blood through the blood screen this time the same unidentifiable chemical now spikes on his paper as well. Not as strong as mine so I'll have to keep checking; see if his levels increase over time to where mine are, or if they drop off and his fever and the infection returns.

Whatever it is; I'm grateful. It's somehow keeping us both alive.

I barely make it back to my bed before I pass out again.

:: Walking Dead ::