'Ey guys. You ready for today's awesome (depending on your opinion) chapter? And look, I even updated sooner than a week, yay! I think I'll update every Saturday, maybe sooner, but definitely every Saturday. I forgot to tell everyone that this story is starting in season 2. Just thought it would help clear up any confusion later on!
Love for follows, favorites, and reviews! Thanks to all my reviewers!
DIUC: I'll try and update often, at the very least, every week! I'm really tryin' to get to Daryl! I LOVE him SO much. I can't wait till I get to post the chapters with him in them. Thanks for getting interested in my story. *hugs and smiles*
SilverAdvenger12: Love the support! I really hope you'll continue to like it! I'm tryin' to keep everything interesting. *cookies and love*
Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead or any of its characters or its story line and plot. However, if I did own it (which I don't), then I'd be so happy I would go insane.
Literally. Mentally. Insane.
Anyway, without further ado, the chapter!
Stiff = zombie or walker
"Rebecca! Get up!" I heard a voice urge, grasping at my shoulder, near the spot on my collar bone. As I felt the reminding pressure on my neck, the images flashed through my mind and my hand tensed underneath my pillow.
I stood up in a flash, a knife pointed toward the attacker. My feet wide and balanced, my body leaning toward the gun on my side table.
It took me a minute to process the face, but when I did, I lowered the knife instantly, shame creeping into my system. "Sorry, dad," I sighed, handing him my weapon wordlessly. He took it. As soon as my hands were no longer in possession of the knife, I rubbed at my eyes, clearing away the wariness and distress.
"Nightmares?" he questioned for the fifth morning in a row, with a familiar, sympathetic stare.
"Yeah," I mumbled, moving past him so he wouldn't be able to see my drained, hopeless expression. I wished I could say that the horrific dreams had started when the apocalypse did, but that would be a lie. They had always been there, sitting in the back of my mind, just waiting until dark to show themselves. It had been that way every night for the past six years.
"What was it this time?" he probed gently, understanding I could close up at any moment and shut him out.
I carefully began searching the closet for jeans or some other reasonable clothing I could take with me. I was really getting sick of only having three changes of clothes. "Just… more stiffs," I muttered, unable to give him the details. I could feel the perspiration on my skin caused by the fear and horror of the dream. It mixed with the dried sweat, grime, and muck that hadn't left my body for some time. I felt like a walking dirt magnet.
It was his turn to sigh, the happy mood from the previous night absent. "They can't even leave us alone in our dreams," he grumbled. I grunted, not wanting to further this particular conversation.
"Do they have nothing useful here?" I asked, changing the subject as I searched through the garments dangling from the hangers. The old dresses, all reaching ankle length, seemed as if they should be displayed in a museum. They filled the closet, limply hanging off the hangers with faded colors and old fashioned prints. All of them were flimsy excuses for clothes, impractical and useless.
"Afraid not, I've already searched through all the other closets. Don't even bother," he answered with a small, forced smile. I strode over to my pack, irritation threatening to overcome all other feelings. I picked up the pack, slinging it over my shoulder. I took a deep breath. I hated that something as simple as a nightmare could steal my good mood away.
"Are we heading out?"
"Yeah, we need to get some more ground covered. We'll see if we can get to a town, maybe find a vehicle," he strategized calmly, tossing me a granola bar. I caught it, ripping it open as I followed my father out the door.
I breathed in and out evenly, mentally washing away my bitterness. A serene calmed filled me as we exited the house.
I smiled despite the nightmare that remained fresh in my mind.
Today would be a good day. I would make sure it was.
The late afternoon sun tinted everything with orange and pink, allowing happiness and sadness to creep into my system. They battled for dominance as I glanced around, frowning at the warning twist in my gut.
My father stopped me, his arm coming in front of me, indicating for me to slow to a halt. I inspected the woods, my eyes scanning over every tree and shrub. I had sensed something off more than a few minutes ago, but had brushed it off as my usual nervousness. Now that my father detected it too, I knew something was most definitely wrong.
It wasn't a zombie kind of off. No stiffs could be seen anywhere. The stench of death didn't permeate the air. No, this was something else.
With a small gesture from my father, I glimpsed down at the ground, furrowing my eyebrows together. I had never been good at reading the ground. I could barely distinguish a bear track from a raccoon one. The closest I'd ever gotten to being accommodated with the wilderness was going fishing with my father every weekend. However, even I couldn't help but notice how the twigs were snapped abnormally and the leaves had been crunched unnaturally in some places. Footsteps marred into the dirt, too harsh to be any animal. I peered up at my father, nodding to him.
I silently grabbed my gun, clicking off the safety and gripping it tight. My father did the same.
My body stayed on high alert, waiting for the threat to present itself. It could just be another lone survivor, harmless and on the run. Or it could be a desperate hostile, willing to do anything and everything to steal our remaining ammo and supplies.
I kept my back to my father. His was to mine and we worked in unison as we covered the ground, grasping at the small signs in the dirt to follow the path. Despite the trail, I felt eyes on us. It could be my paranoia, a valid excuse, but I couldn't be sure whether my uncertain instincts were a warning or a hindrance in this instance. My skin prickled with the familiarity of being examined by unidentified eyes. I kept quiet, not making my father aware to my suspicions. If I spoke aloud or made a sound, then we, and our position, would undoubtedly be given away.
Maybe if I had heeded my instincts better, I would have seen it coming. I would have noticed the trail subtly turning back around, leading us in a circle. I would have detected the silence, the inaudible sound of nature being disturbed by something sinister. I would have realized that someone was indeed watching us, ready to strike.
The unnamed assailant, perched in the tree to my right, was a lousy shot. Clearly inexperienced with the way the bullet strayed from the heart or head-whichever area they had been aiming for-and curved too far to the right. Probably a frightened citizen who had just picked up the gun and decided to use it; a coward trying to steal and cheat their way through this rough life by harming others.
The shot didn't have to be good though, it just had to be enough. It only needed to hit one of us. It needed to create a chink in our armor.
My eyes met cold, nervous, steel ones. I had barely half a second to look him over. I didn't immediately raise my gun, considering this person to be afraid and seeking help. I didn't have enough time to warn my father or utter a word. I didn't even have enough to time to harden my resolve and pull the trigger. The person, easily able to blend in with the tree, was suspended on a branch, awaiting the perfect time to shoot. And he found it.
I heard the shot before anything else, the loud crack that startled the birds into flying away and caused the tree to sway from the kickback of the gun.
A searing pain in my right shoulder made me drop my gun. I gasped, unsure of what had happened, though I understood it. I knew a shot had rung out and a bullet had been released. I just didn't realize that it had hit me.
I stumbled back into my father just as I felt him turning around. I heard a second shot right next to my ear. I wanted to turn around, ask my father if he was okay, but I didn't. Instead, I watched as the person fell out of the tree, cursing and yelling in a distinctly male voice.
"Rebecca," I heard my father shout loudly. His voice bellowed out, scratchy and raw. I had never seen my father cry, but I knew without observing him, that he was about to.
My hand came up to my shoulder. It hadn't hit anything fatal, that I discerned, but if the blood loss didn't kill me, the eventual infection that set in would. I processed this, my mind reacting logically as soon as I comprehended that it was me that had been injured. I tried to apply pressure, but I couldn't do it properly, not by myself. If I could just get to the bandages in my bag. If I could just hold myself together long enough to stop the bleeding. If I could just keep from passing out from the pain, then I could tend to the wound before I lost too much blood.
I didn't know I had fallen until my father caught me. He lowered me down onto the forest floor.
I breathed in and out roughly, trying not to cry from the pain. "Pressure," I panted to my father, knowing he would do as I asked. I closed my eyes as his hands compressed onto my shoulder, forcing me to clench my teeth together to keep from screaming and attracting every stiff in the area. If the gunshot didn't bring them, then my screams would. I pulled my hand away, noticing the red of the blood staining my skin.
I felt my logical grasp on things start to slip. I tried to hold onto it, but the fear inside of me and the alarming crimson surrounding my body forced me into a state of shock. I could die today. I could die.
No. No, no, no, no! My father would know what to do. He always did. He would save me and we would be okay. We would be fine. I would get up, we would keep moving forward, and it would be like nothing ever happened. We were a team and we would stay a team. We would be on our way to my mother and sister and everything would be fine.
As my father gray eyes bored into my green, I wondered if I actually considered that to be true. It was a miracle that I had survived as long as I did. The panic and the dread that filled my father's face told me everything. There was a chance. A chance I would die and never come back. A chance I would never get to my mother and sister. A chance he would give up.
I choked, pushing away tears and sorrow.
"If-If I don't make it-"
"Rebecca," my father stopped me. I squeaked as he determinedly applied more pressure. He didn't release the added weight, but gave me an apologetic look laced with fear. "You will not die today," he declared forcefully, staring down at me with that fatherly gaze of his. Despite the tears brimming in his eyes, I knew what he was thinking. Be strong, Rebecca, be strong. I haven't given up yet, so why would I now? He appeared almost reprimanding, as if he was scolding me for trying to die on him. "Fathers are not supposed to outlive their children," he supplied, as if this was the exact reason I would survive. I couldn't help but smile at him.
"Dad," I grinned shakily. I let out a watery laugh before sucking in a breath, my sudden chest movement sending a raw ache through me. Black spots swam in my vision. Suddenly the light breaking in through the trees didn't seem so bright anymore. The heat of the day didn't seem so scorching. "Just-just get to them. Mom a-and Riley." My father didn't say anything back, or if he did, I didn't hear him. I felt no reassurance as I faded in and out.
I knew I was losing blood and fast. I didn't know whether the pain or the blood loss would be the thing to make me lose consciousness. How could it be that I had been shot only moments ago? How could it be that everything was ending so quickly?
After waves of agony, for a split moment, I felt nothing. In that second, I glanced at my father, not completely seeing or hearing anything. My blood smeared everywhere and my loud, labored breathing were the only thing to get through to me. "Love you, dad," I whispered with a weak smile.
My words were coherent and my thoughts were sane. I was confident that he still saw me as his little girl, despite the fact I had killed a few zombies and hotwired some cars in my day. I recognized that he loved me no matter what. I knew he would say it back, I didn't need for him to reassure me, but I wanted to hear him say it before I let God, or whoever had decided to control my fate, take me. I wanted that simple, little comfort.
I didn't get to hear him say anything as everything faded to black and my whole body slackened.
My head ached. A throbbing beginning in my temples and bending back behind my eyes welcomed me into consciousness. My eyelids weighed down heavily from my recent slumber. The after effects of a deep, black sleep affected me as I struggled to become aware. My whole body pulsated with soreness and I didn't attempt to try and fight the urge to stay motionless.
My eyes hesitantly opened, noting the darkened skies. I felt no heat from a fire, though the night should have been warm all by itself, it wasn't though. I felt cold. I could sense the goose bumps rising on my arms just as these thoughts passed through my head. I wanted the warmth of a fire, but I knew how illogical it would be to light one. It would attract every stiff within in the vicinity.
It took me a few good moments before I got up the nerve to try and move my rigid body. I immediately attempted to sit up, but ended up crying out as a sharp pain shot through my shoulder and arm. I heard movement from beside me as I soon as the sound left my mouth.
"Rebecca?" my father asked, breathing a sigh of relief. I tilted my chin downward, trying to get a good look at my injury. The bandages on my arm, though appearing as if they had been freshly changed, were stained with red. They wrapped tightly around my shoulder, moving towards my arm. I gritted my teeth, turning my head away as everything came back to me.
"How long ago?" I demanded. How long had I been out? How long ago was it that I had been shot? How long had I been surviving with a bullet in my shoulder?
My father pulled out a water bottle with a stern face.
"About an hour and a half, maybe two," he informed emotionlessly. I couldn't tell if he remained stoic for my benefit or his. I reached for the water with my good arm, cringing at the pain it caused me. He shook his head, moving the bottle out of my reach. I sighed, hating the feeling of being helpless. He gently poured the water into my mouth. "I bandaged your wound. I've been keeping it tightly bound and clean. I can't dig the bullet out, not without you losing more blood than you already have. Stitches aren't an option, not with that slug in there, but your shoulder should be good, for now."
I growled, leaning back onto the ground as the cool water slid down my throat.
"We need to get the bullet out," I exhaled, knowing that we couldn't. I wouldn't survive the blood loss and I'd probably end up passing out from the pain. We didn't have the proper medical supplies to do the procedure. I'd need a blood transfusion to make it. At the very least, we'd require clean utensils and medicine to prevent infection.
I understood what this meant without really needing to think it through. I was going to die.
I didn't alert my father to my beliefs, knowing the argument that would ensue. He was nearly sixty. He already had too much on his plate without me going and dying on him. I inwardly chuckled at the mental scolding I was giving myself.
I made myself think through other possibilities, other ways to survive. Just as I had started really trying to figure something out, my father began speaking, handing me a stick of jerky as he did.
"Eat up, you're gonna need to regain your strength and replace that blood you lost." I took a bite, holding the dried meat with my good hand. I observed his carefully passive expression. I had to force myself to swallow as he started explaining his next course of action. "I'm thinking about scouting ahead, seeing if I can find a hospital or pharmacy or something, anything that could be holding medical supplies."
I shook my head, immediately regretting the decision as pain traveled through my head in waves. "You can't go alone, it's too dangerous. Even if you do, what about me? Do I just lie here and wait for some stiff to find me?" I protested harshly.
He stood up abruptly. "I'm leaving in the morning. I'll set you up in a tree, it shouldn't be more than a few hours until I get back," he explained calmly. I furrowed my eyebrows, fighting off tears of anger and desperation. My father reacted better to rational arguments.
"What if pass out? Fall out of the tree and break my neck?" He lifted up some rope, indicating his intention to tie me to the tree. I scowled at him. "This isn't smart, dad."
He ran a hand through his dark hair. "It's the only way, Rebecca. You won't survive, not without some new supplies, some medicine." I could see his reasoning, I really could, but he couldn't leave me on my own. We worked better together. Parent and child. Father and daughter. Protecting each other and watching each other's backs. I knew if he went off searching for supplies that might not even exist, he may never come back.
I desperately wanted to tug at my hair in frustration, but the movement would have caused too much agony. I peered up into old and anxious eyes. "Take me with you," I begged. "I can make it, we can make it."
He laughed bitterly, his whole posture wilting from strong and patient to broken and unconvinced. "You can't even stand. I am not risking you. You're staying here," he ordered in a rough voice. I struggled to sit up, desperately trying to climb to my feet. The only reward I received for my persistence was a stab of pain and the darkening of my bandage. I gave up, not wanting to further damage my shoulder. My jacket slipped off my shoulders from where it had been acting as a blanket and the cold further affected me.
I panted heavily, feeling depressed by the fact that sitting up had nearly killed me.
"Dad, just wait a few days, until I get better. Then we can go together," I offered, trying to reason with him. He lowered down beside me, clasping my hand in his. I knew his words before he said them.
"You don't have a few days," he whispered.
Tears finally escaped as I gave up the battle to be strong. Despite the revelation earlier, despite the knowledge that I would die, I wasn't ready. I didn't want to die. It wasn't an escape from this cruel, different world. It was just a path that I could take, a choice. Shit or shittier? Easy or hard? Cowardly or honorably?
I wasn't going down without a fight. I always thought I would die, taking down stiffs one by one as they came at me, in bloody combat or while protecting a loved one. Not by an insignificant bullet from a hidden coward. I wanted to stay and battle my way through this tough life.
"Be back by tomorrow night," I commanded silently, giving him permission to go. I knew he would've gone anyway, with or without my consent, but it would help him to know that I condoned his actions.
"Thank you," he murmured softly. I nodded the best I could while lying on the ground. Gulping, my eyes scanned the trees around us.
"Where is he? The man who… who shot me?" I asked. I winced at the fear in my voice, not liking the weakness.
My father squeezed my hand once, letting me know I was safe, before settling back onto his haunches.
"My shot hit his hand. He fell out of the tree he'd been hiding in. But as soon as he was down, he got away. He's out there somewhere with a busted hand and possibly a twisted ankle. I would've gone after him, but…." But I was bleeding out on the forest floor, he didn't need to say it. I glanced around again and my father sighed, dropping my hand. "He's gone, Rebecca. This place is safe."
I turned back to him, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. How could I trust my gut? My disposition clung to hope, forcing me believe that tomorrow would be better, but I had felt that feeling this morning, and look how I'd ended up.
I could just barely see him in the darkness of the night, but I could make out every detail of his worried face.
I held out my pinky finger. My father stared at it, a familiar smile curving his lips.
"I want you to promise."
He held out his own finger hesitantly. "Promise what exactly?" he probed.
"Promise you'll come back." He didn't link his finger with mine immediately and I glared at him. "I'm not asking you to guarantee that it will be alright. I don't want reassurance that everything will be okay. I just want you to come back, whether you find the supplies or not."
He offered me one of his paternal grins, reminding me of my childhood.
He wrapped his pinky around mine.
"I promise."
What, she was shot? So soon? Did that seem rushed to you guys? It did to me, but then again, I've been trying to hurry up and get to our favorite hick. And sorry if I know nothing about dying and gunshot wounds and blood loss. I Googled and Wikipedia-ed the crap out of that, just trying to get everything right.
Review, I'd love to hear your commentary on this. I love everyone who has taken the time for this story! Thanks for reading!