Attention friendshippers. This chapter contains shippy material.
Another note: I'm playing with some toys (places and minor characters) from the Telltale Game from now on. Since it's pretty much Walking Dead canon anyway.
I love that game very much and liked the idea of playing around with this place. Having said that: none of the major characters from the game will turn up in this fic.
No Clementine, no Lee, no Molly. Just a couple of minor characters because I need them as plot devices so to say.
And the thing takes place before the Telltale game events from the later Savannah episodes. Okay. Here we go!
Resurrection
Chapter 19 - Savannah
53 days ago...
May 5th 2008, 10:14pm, Savannah, Georgia
He could hardly breathe, walk, or do anything, but still kept running. Murphy would turn around every now and then, to make sure he was not being followed, but whenever he turned his head he saw it: the headlights of a car, always close, always following him, no matter where he went. He had arrived here two days ago.
Savannah, Georgia.
He'd heard them talk about this place, multiple times, and whenever Smith or his precious little soldiers had mentioned this town and this district they had always sounded disgusted, like they honestly hated it. Which was reason enough why he wanted to stay here. There had to be a reason why they hated Savannah, why they hated Crawford, and the only possible solution had to be that the Augusta crew had enemies here. Enemies hated each other, and he knew that they were willing to do whatever they could to harm the other.
Like taking a refuge in. Someone Augusta really wanted.
Murphy really felt the need to cough because his bad smoker lungs were making it hard to breathe, but he knew he couldn't do anything like that. They were close, but it looked like they didn't quite know where he was yet. Those bastards had been following him ever since he had managed to escape the campus back in Augusta. Soldiers with guns and god knows what kind of other stuff they had to drag him back and do some more work on their precious little cure.
It wasn't like he didn't want to find a cure, to get rid of all these undead bastards and make the world a safer place. He just didn't want to die for it. He knew it was selfish, knew that it was mean. But he didn't trust anyone anymore. Didn't believe anyone, and he certainly wouldn't do anything for anyone anymore. After everything he had been through, everything he had lost and everything he had seen he certainly deserved to live. Certainly deserved some peace, and a minute to breathe.
"He's over there!" he heard a voice echo through the surrounding streets, and about a second later the beam of light hit him.
"Shit" Murphy gasped and jumped to the right, behind an overturned trolley car.
He was so damn close, he couldn't get caught now!
He stopped running just for a second, to catch breath and maybe find an alternative route, a small alley or a house he could use as a shortcut, just so the damn freaking car would stop following him. The younger MacManus twin couldn't really see anything, just the strange signs and scribblings on all the doors. Whatever it was, he hoped that it would bring closer to this Crawford place, that it would tell him that he was almost there.
"Faster! Don't let him escape! We need him alive!" he heard the same voice yell from somewhere behind him, and the car engine was getting louder and louder.
He could also hear fast footsteps, like people had jumped out of the car and where now trying to chase him on foot.
Fuck, it was a goddamn manhunt. He needed to get out of here.
Murphy took a deep breath and then started running again, ignoring the pain in his chest and throat because he was so out of breath. Days of running away from these soldiers, days of living in fear of getting caught, with little sleep and almost no food. He didn't know for how much longer he could take it. He didn't have a real plan, didn't have a real idea. He was relying on possibilities and other people, and he knew it was risky, he just didn't have any other choice.
He knew that he wouldn't stand a chance against them on his own. Even if he managed to take out a couple of them, there were too many, and he didn't want to risk getting overwhelmed and caught. His life literally depended on it, although he knew that they wouldn't shoot him, wouldn't cut or hurt him in any way. He knew that they would even give him food, let him rest, and although he really wanted that he also knew that it was just foul play. They were only doing that because they needed his brain, whatever was inside of him. It was like they were trying to fatten him like a turkey on thanksgiving. He didn't want that, so he just ran even faster.
"Go go go! He's slipping away!" the voice yelled again, and then the beam of light returned, hitting his back, no matter how fast he ran, how much he zigzagged or tried to hide behind cars, benches or the wall that surrounded the harbour. Murphy turned his head to the left, to see if there was a way out. He noticed Talmadge Memorial bridge, saw the boat wrecks, the general chaos all around the harbour of Savannah, and that's when it hit him.
The harbour.
He'd seen it on the map. Crawford was close to the harbour, the river.
He was close.
"Change of plans! Shoot his legs! I repeat, shoot his legs. Just stop him from running and get him!" came the order from behind, and the dark-haired MacManus widened his eyes in shock.
Oh no. Not bullets. Not again.
About a second later bullets started flying, hitting the pavement around his feet, which made Murphy jump and zigzag in a desperate attempt not to get injured. Panic was slowly rushing over him. He knew how much a shot hurt, and ever since Connor had….he squeezed his eyes shut when he remembered that terrible night. Even now he couldn't speak it out, not even in his thoughts, because it hurt too much, because it scared and terrified him. He was scared of the bullets, didn't understand why everyone was trying to hurt or kill him all the time, why no one was there to protect him from all this endless shit.
He sprinted even faster, lungs burning, eyes watering, heart pounding, until a breeze suddenly hit him right in his face, the terrible stench of rotting flesh. The searchlight of the car was still moving about the neighbourhood, the houses, the street, trying to find him, and it was when the light hit something in front of Murphy that made him widen his eyes in shock and come to an abrupt halt.
He was facing what looked like a wall, only that you couldn't really call it one. Countless bodies had been put up to a large pile of rotting flesh, a decomposing wall that was supposed to terrify intruders and keep them out. What made the whole thing even more disgusting and terrifying was the fact that he could see countless stakes, pieces of wood that had been used to impale walkers. Undead, that were being used as bait, beings, that were still moving and moaning, that hadn't been killed yet. The younger MacManus groaned and pulled his shirt up, to cover his nose so he didn't have to breathe the stench in any longer, but also because he was trying to muffle the sounds of his reaction, and because he also feared he might throw up.
It had to be Crawford. Their way of keeping the undead out, their way of keeping everyone out. He hadn't pictured it like that. Not at all. It looked like the place was just as nuts as the soldiers behind him, meaning only one thing: he didn't have anywhere to go. There was a wall of death in front of him, the enemy right behind him, the river to his left and houses to his right.
He was trapped.
Murphy turned around in horror, trying to find a way out, but he could see that the soldiers were close and getting closer still, ready to drag him back to Augusta, back to this godforsaken hospital where they were going to cut him open and kill him. Part of him just wanted to fall to his knees and cry because he was so desperate, but at the same time the whole situation just made him furious, because this had to be some sort of joke. He'd survived so much shit that this just couldn't be it. He clenched his teeth and fists and turned around to face the wall again, contemplating the idea of climbing up the thing, or lying down and using the rotting bodies as a cover. Just…something!
"Where'd he go?! Find him!" the voice yelled and then there were more shots, as if they were trying to lure him out.
Murphy looked around in panic, head turning and turning and turning, until he moved both his hands up to his head so he could pull his black hair.
This couldn't be it.
The strange sound of something scraping along the asphalt somewhere to his right made him turn his head. He could see an alley to his right, between two houses next to the wall. His only chance. Before the beam of light could hit him again he started sprinting towards the alley, the one with the noises. He was about halfway there when he noticed what had caused the noise: a gully. Lying there on the street. A second later a head with grey hair popped out, revealing and old man who was staring at him with wide eyes, staring and waving.
"Hurry! Over here!" he whisper-shouted and kept waving, animating Murphy to run faster.
The younger MacManus didn't know who the man was or if he could trust him, but right now none of that mattered because the soldiers and the car were coming closer and closer. He sprinted and sprinted until he fell to his knees right in front of the hole in the street. The old man was staring at him, eyeing him head to toe, only to turn his head in the direction of the soldiers.
"You from Crawford?!" he asked with his croaky old voice, and Murphy shook his head as fast as he could.
Just like the old man he couldn't keep his eyes off the beam of light on the wall, that was getting larger and brighter by the second, signaling them that the soldiers were almost there. "No, please, ye gotta help me" he gasped, completely out of breath, not giving a damn about how pathetic he sounded right now. He was just tired of running, he wanted a place to hide, to calm down and come up with a plan. The man looked at him once more, as if he was contemplating something, which made Murphy's blood boil with rage. He wanted to yell at the man and call him an old bastard because it was taking him so freaking long to let him in, but he knew that it wouldn't be very wise to snap at the man who was supposed to get him out of this mess.
"Vernon?" the voice of a woman was coming from somewhere underneath the old man, who looked down to answer her.
"It's alright Brie. It's not those men from Crawford" he said and Murphy gritted his teeth.
He could already hear the footsteps around the corner, and knew that he was just seconds from getting caught.
"Listen, grandda, I don't wanna interrupt yer little chitchat, but those men out there are trying ta fuckin kill me!" he hissed and lost his temper, although he instantly regretted it. The old man named Vernon looked at him again and narrowed his eyes at him. For a moment it actually looked like he would just climb back down and not let him in, and Murphy's heart nearly skipped a beat.
"We can't find him, Sir!" a voice roared from somewhere very close behind him, and then Vernon finally started to climb back down.
"Okay. Hurry, close the door behind you and be quiet!" Vernon whisper-shouted and Murphy hurried after him, grabbing the gully on his way down, to pull it shut above him as quietly as he could. About a split second later he heard the voice of the soldier again, who had obviously made his way around the corner by now and was now walking around the street right above them. Both Murphy and Vernon froze on the leader and held their breaths, listening to the footsteps, the talking, and then..the cursing.
"Shit! He's fuckin nowhere!" the soldier cursed and walked around the alley, until they heard his feet right on top of the gully, where he froze. Murphy swallowed hard when he heard even more footsteps walking around the alley and its close surroundings, like the entire squad was now walking around right above their heads. The younger MacManus wouldn't move an inch, although it was getting hard to hold on to the slippery and stinking leader. He prayed to god that this Vernon guy and his woman Brie were smart enough to keep their mouths shut now, so they wouldn't give his location away.
"Looks like the little bastard managed to slip away. Again."
"This is all your fault!" another soldier yelled and then they heard how they started shoving each other.
"Shut up. Shut. Up!"
"No, I ain't gonna shut up. What are we supposed t'tell Smith? You just gonna 'shut up' about it? We're supposed to find this little piece of shit!
We're five people, he's all alone. We could've caught him days ago! Just cos you had to go on a fuckin…"
"ShhhhH!" a third soldier interrupted the other two and just for a moment it was completely quiet. Murphy held his breath once again, fearing that his heavy breathing could give him away, now that they were standing right on top of him, so to say. All he could hear was his muffled and shaky breathing, as well as the exhausted and deep moans and groans of the impaled walkers outside.
"That's some creepy shit, man" another soldier said from somewhere further away, suggesting that he was standing right in front of the wall with said walkers.
"Shut up, I think I…." seconds later Murphy startled because of the sudden loud noise of countless gunshots.
He could hear the surprised screams and "Holy shit!"'s of the soldiers, but within seconds the shooting and screaming abruptly stopped.
Murphy was really shaking by now, because he didn't know what was going on, who had attacked the soldiers and obviously mowed them down. He pulled a face and shivered when droplets of blood hit his cheek, seeping through the holes of the gully where one of the shot soldiers was obviously lying and bleeding out now.
"You got them all?" he heard the voice of another man, a stranger he absolutely didn't know and had never heard before.
"Positive. Just look at that. They have lots of gear. Oberson will like that"
"We should move" came the whisper from somewhere below Murphy, which startled him once more. He had forgotten all about Vernon because of everything that just occurred. The other men above them were still talking and moving stuff around, drowning Vernon's voice, and Murphy knew that this was their chance to get away from this place. He started climbing down the leader, careful not to make a noise, eyes fixed on the dripping hole above him. He didn't like climbing into complete darkness with two strangers , but anything was better than having to be up there right now. So he climbed and chewed on his lower lip because he was nervous, because he didn't know what was going on or what had happened in general.
Vernon certainly owed him one hell of an explanation.
53 days later
June 27th 2008, 2:57pm, Augusta, Georgia
He was staring at the muddy water below, the countless waves that were rising and falling in a constant rhythm, but there was nothing there. Just water. Just the rushing and splashing. No body, no blonde hair, no blood and no limbs. Connor was just gone, swallowed by the river, disappeared, out of his sight. "Go go go! Downstairs! Get him! Split up in teams and go search for him!" came the excited commands from the soldiers, whilst Smith was walking away from his spot, rushing after his men, trying to talk some sense into them while begging them to get his beloved test subject back.
Daryl just stared out of the broken window, hands clutching around the window frame, glass splinters cutting his palms because he was holding on too hard. He couldn't believe that Connor had made that jump. The guy usually used his brain, usually came up with escape routes and plans, and although he could be pretty stupid and annoying, he hardly ever was so spontaneous, so incredibly…desperate.
He remembered the look on Connor's face, replayed it over and over again.
Now that he thought about it, whenever he had looked at his friend before…he'd always been dead. Joking. Yes. Laughing. Yes. Making fun of him and mocking him. Yes. But whenever he'd done that, whenever he'd seemed 'happy' and 'recovered' his eyes had always told Daryl a different story. Connor had always just done that to mask something, to hide the obvious, to keep himself going. Months of just dragging his body from one spot to the next, enduring all the pain, the walkers, Woodbury, their fights, his fists and insults, he'd always just taken it in. Just lived with it. Just to keep going, to keep his promise, but deep deep down Connor had always been….dead inside. Sliced up, missing something, something that Daryl had never been able to pin down. Or replace.
But then he'd seen that look on his friends face. He could almost hear Merle laugh at him and call him all sorts of sissy names because of that thought, but he didn't care. He could've sworn that he'd seen something change in Connor's eyes during those couple of seconds they'd looked at each other just before that jump. There hadn't been fear or terror because of all the guns, or the jump he'd planned. No, Connor had looked -alive-. Awaken from the dead. Come back to life, like someone had induced hope in his every fibre of being. Eyes gleaming with determination, not sadness and loneliness.
Seconds of seeing that change, but now he was just gone.
Daryl clenched his fists even more around the window frame, staring at those goddamn waves that had just…eaten his friend. He swallowed hard and turned around, facing the chaos that his friend had caused. He could see all the soldiers and staff, running around, trying to come up with a solution, trying to locate Connor through the windows, and then he saw the crew, the group of soldiers that was supposed to get the Irishman back.
They were heading for the stairs.
The ones he'd locked up.
He widened his eyes in horror when he finally snapped out of his trance. Yes, Connor was down there in the river, maybe drowning, but he was still up here.
Locked up with countless soldiers. People, who were obviously done playing nice.
His time was running out.
"Get down there! Get him back! Hurry!" Smith yelled, now completely beside himself because of the shock and fear of losing yet another test subject.
And this was when Daryl finally knew how to move his legs again. He grabbed his rifle and turned around to start running, using all the chaos and running about to get the hell away from here. He ran into a nurse but kept going, because he needed to get to their room, to get their stuff and make his way out of here. He was right behind the group of soldiers who was very close to the door he'd locked. They were only seconds from discovering that they were trapped up here, locked in with him, the very person who had caused this whole mess in the first place. It wouldn't take them too long to figure that out, he was absolutely sure of that. So he moved even faster and then disappeared inside his and Connor's room, to slam the door shut in a hurry. He got rid of the helmet and had a look around the room in panic.
Their bags were still there, he did have all the things they had taken from them to store them in the weapon's chamber. He did have everything he needed. Well, except for Connor and his crossbow, but he was working on that. Daryl caught glimpse of the couch his friend had used to sleep on just the night before, and after fixing his eyes on the door and hearing the excited screaming of the soldiers outside he knew that it was time to get creative. He grabbed the couch and started moving it towards the door, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest from the broken rip and healing gunshot wound. He could hear them outside, yelling at each other and trying to open the lock.
"Find that other guy!" one of the soldiers roared, and hunter knew that they were now onto him.
He managed to move the sofa in front of the door and the knocked one of the bookshelves over, just in time to stop them from breaking in. The hunter took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead, only to twirl around and grab his and Connor's backpacks from the floor. "What do I do what do I do" he muttered, panic slowly rushing over him. Time was running out. Not just because those soldiers were about to break in here and probably kill him, but also because Connor was still down there, lost in the stream of water.
"Shoot the door!" he heard them yell and widened his eyes in shock, throwing himself to the ground just split seconds before a hail of bullets rained down on him, piercing through the wood of the door and shelf, getting caught in the cushions of the sofa and the pages of the books that were still inside. For a good minute the soldiers kept shooting at the door, piercing everything around the office and breaking the window opposite. Daryl crawled to the left side of the door, right next to the sofa, chest heaving, waiting for them to stop and desperate to come up with a plan.
Shit. Connor was usually the one with the ideas.
He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed while licking his lips, trying to come up with anything his friend had ever told him.
More bullets, the breaking of glass, Connor falling out of the window and then his eyes suddenly snapped open, an idea striking him like lightning.
See that window over there? 'm pretty sure that's te stair case. Seven floors, we're at te top floor, right wing of the building got te stair case at the far end with three rooms per side down the corridor. Probably offices like this one, not much space fer too many soldiers. And there's a fuckin rain gutter right there.
The fucking window.
"Cease fire! He ain't going nowhere. Now move! Get that door open!" a soldier on the other side of the door roared, and Daryl could even see them through some of the holes they had made. He knew this was his chance. He grabbed their bags and ran for the broken window, only to stop in his tracks and look down. Seven floors was freaking -high-. He could hear the wind blowing from up here. It wasn't like he was afraid of heights. He just didn't exactly fancy walking around a rusty rain gutter with hardly anything to hold on to. The other window wasn't too far away, the one that led back to the staircase. But still. He had to walk around a corner, keep his balance, and hope that no one would look outside a window and shoot him before he managed to get over there.
"Son of a bitch, this is crazy" he muttered and chewed on his lip, only to come to the conclusion that this was his only chance.
He leaned back inside and knelt down, to open Connor's bag and move all his stuff in his backpack instead. He couldn't go out there with two bags, and certainly not with a duffel bag. He got rid of most of their clothes excluding Connor's favourite shirt and his favourite jeans, and after moving their few personal things around he was finally good to go. He unloaded his rifle and put the ammo in his bag as well, only to throw the weapon away. It was too heavy and he wouldn't need it later, because his crossbow was still stored in the broom closet by the staircase. He grabbed his backpack and then made his way over to the window, only to get weak knees once again.
It was a fucking crazy escape plan. Of freaking course. Only Connor could come up with something as shitty as this.
He moved his backpack until it was hovering above his belly, so it wouldn't be in the way during his climb, then he sat down on the window sill. He turned around once more to make sure that the soldiers were still busy with the door and wouldn't start shooting again. He was all alone with this freaking height and he knew it, and maybe this was the time to get going. Connor needed him after all, at least that was what he kept telling himself.
"You crazy fuckin bastard" he muttered and then moved out of the window, carefully placing his foot on the creaky rain gutter and testing it. He took a couple of short deep breaths and tried to stay calm, although he was far from it. Much in contrast to Connor's jump there was no freaking water below, just a dirty old street. Pavement, that was just waiting for his guts to be plastered with. He couldn't believe how Connor could possibly jump out of a window like that. It was freaking nuts. The hunter moved around, away from the window, back pressed to the wall as he was trying anything to keep his balance.
Just don't fall, just don't fall, just don't fall, he repeated in his head and startled when the rain gutter creaked once again.
Oh shit, it ain't gonna hold, he thought and widened his eyes. He tried to move faster and tensed even more, because the thing was really shaking by now. There's no way 'm dying from falling down a freaking building during the freaking apocalypse of the undead, he told himself and gritted his teeth, moving his feet at a steady rhythm until he finally, finally made it over to the window that led back inside.
Daryl took a deep breath and looked down once more, just so he could remember the height later. Picture it, and call himself freaking nuts for doing this. He then reached for one of Connor's guns and used it to bash the window in, just so he could finally climb back inside the building. It was both good and at the same time weird to be back inside, because his legs were still shaking and he could hardly walk.
The hunter adjusted his backpack and put it back on his back, only to startle when another violent bang on the door could be heard. It was shaking violently and he could see a couple of holes from gunshots in there, and he was pretty sure that it wouldn't take the soldiers too long to get the door back open. He adjusted his backpack once more and grabbed Connor's gun just to make sure. He then started running, down the stairs, to get his crossbow back, flee the building and find his friend again, hoping that it wasn't too late for that yet.
It certainly wasn't the first time that he was falling off a building, but just because he'd done it before it didn't mean that he liked it. Just like the two times before the jump was necessary, but he hated what it felt like. The air in his belly, like there were too many bees flying around in there, trying to get out. He tried not to, but his instincts told him to kick with his legs and so he did, causing him to lose his balance a bit, and it certainly wasn't a graceful fall. The wind was screaming in his ears as he kept falling and falling, mind racing with just one simple thought:
Murphy is alive. I need to find him.
He didn't get to think about anything else, because then it was already there. The impact, like his body was hitting hard concrete instead of water. For a split second he actually thought he'd hit a street instead of the river, but then he could already feel it, water, filling his mouth, his nose and his lungs. He hadn't been able to hold back the surprised and painfilled gasp that escaped his mouth when he hit the surface, and that had been enough for the liquid to enter his mouth. Connor coughed but got even more confused when instead of sound and air countless water bubbles would escape his mouth. He didn't know where up and down was, where he was supposed to swim or what he was supposed to do. All he knew was that his foot and calf hurt from the impact.
He had to admit: jumping out of the window had been a bit of a foolish move. Stupid in fact. Just like any other time he'd seen that one in countless action movies. Heroes, that did that kind of a jump and still looked cool, still got out of this mess without a scratch. Not once had the water looked so freaking hard, so alive, so moving and drowning and suffocating like the one he found himself in now.
The Irishman still kept swimming, feeling his wet clothes drag him down, the movement of the river dragging him further away. Up or down, he didn't even know anymore and it didn't matter. He just kept swimming, diving and moving, away from the building, towards his brother, although he didn't know where he was. None of that matter though, because Murphy was alive. His twin was still there, and he would move mountains just to find him. Connor managed to swim on for about a minute until the more basic instincts kicked in, the rational part of his brain rather than the extremely emotional one that was trying to stay in charge right now. But then he could feel it, the urge that was slowly forcing the need to find his brother away.
He needed air.
Fast.
The blonde swam even faster, desperate to find a way back to the water surface, because Murphy could be alive all he wanted, if he didn't survive this godless torrent then that wouldn't be of any use. He blew out some tiny bits of his last remaining precious air, to watch the bubbles float, to force himself to wait and watch where they would go, because they were always heading upwards.
His heart nearly stopped when he realized that he had been swimming in the wrong direction.
And now he really needed air.
Connor tried his hardest to keep himself from breathing in, but it was a life-sustaining urge, something that he couldn't stop forever. And he swam faster and faster, but no matter what he did, no matter how fast he moved, for some reason the water surface was still too far away, and the movement of the river kept him from swimming straight up. The first accidental gulp, more water filling his mouth and lungs, and the disgusting feeling like he tried to drink and swallowed the wrong way. Connor started coughing violently, but that just made it worse, forcing the last bit of air out of his lungs and making it impossible to keep going, to keep swimming.
Another gulp, but he was so freaking close to the water surface, he could almost touch it.
Murphy.
He needed to find Murphy.
Although there was nothing left inside him he still kept going, swimming, fighting, although he was now practically breathing water, drowning himself.
It didn't matter. He would keep going until his dying breath. He needed to keep fighting to get back to his brother. He had almost reached the water surface when his determined mind wouldn't break, but his body did. He did one final 'breath' of water, felt how the liquid kept forcing itself inside his lungs despite his desperate attempts to keep it out of there, and he cursed himself for every cigarette he had smoked in his entire life, because he knew that without all that smoke and destroying his lungs he would have been able to make it. He kept struggling and swimming and reaching out for the water surface, almost like he was trying to reach out for his brother, but then his body just gave up, failed because of the lack of air, and everything went silent, everything went black.
His broken rib burned with every step that he took, every loud in- or exhale. Daryl kept running and running, eyes fixed on the greyish/brownish water surface of the Savannah river. He didn't have a clue where to look, if he could or should see him, if he was on this side of the river at all, but he didn't have any other choice, any other idea or any other clue what to do about it otherwise. He wasn't good at maths, or physics, or whatever you needed to calculate the impact of such a jump, or where exactly Connor had landed, but he trusted his instincts, and those told him that his friend had to get out of the river on the same side.
It just had to be like that, he couldn't explain it otherwise, because to him it was pretty stupid to believe that a slim body like Connor's would float across the entire river and land on the other side. And judging by the height of the building and the fall itself it should be pretty impossible for his friend to swim over there. He'd gained some muscles, that was true, but he was still a skinny asshole, a guy from a large city like Boston, who'd probably never really been inside such a large and natural body of water before.
But the river was exactly the problem. It was wide. It was long. It was wild and unpredictable these days. Countless people had drowned before. Prior the apocalypse. Grown ass men. Not just children. And even if Connor had managed to get out of there on his own, so many things could have gone wrong. He could've broken a couple of bones. Those thugs were out there. He'd seen them yesterday night. Then there were those soldiers, who'd probably managed to get outside the building by now, heading for the river, to get Connor back.
What if those bastards had been faster? What if he just couldn't find Connor again? Augusta was a large city. They'd never come up with an alternative meeting point. Finding each other was going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. So many things could go….he tensed when he suddenly came up with another possibility, one that made his heart ache and his fists clench.
I gotta find him, he'd said.
What if Connor had survived the jump without any broken bones, gotten out of the water and just left without him? What if he didn't need him anymore, didn't want to be with him anymore? He was a violent asshole, who hardly ever said how much he appreciated their friendship. And now his best argument was useless. Yes, so maybe he looked like Connor's brother, but that didn't matter anymore because Murphy was still alive. Like a better version of him.
He didn't need him anymore.
Daryl ran even faster, because he didn't want it to be like that, because he didn't want to lose his friend, because he didn't know what to do without him, because it made him feel empty and alone. The hunter didn't get to keep spinning these thoughts around, because right then he saw it. A body, floating face down on the water surface, following the river's movement, floating past him, unmoving.
"No" Daryl gasped and started running towards the river, dropping his crossbow and backpack on the walkway, just before jumping into the water.
No no no no. He'd been fine just a couple of minutes ago. They'd seen each other just before that jump. Everything had been fine, so it couldn't just go to shit like that. After the farm, the prison and Woodbury Connor couldn't just fucking drown in a river. He swam as fast as he could, desperation taking over his limbs that were moving faster and faster, fighting the current and dragging his body over to his friend. Despite the hot temperatures outside the water was still freezing, soaking his clothes and making him shiver. When he finally reached Connor he grabbed him by his shoulders to turn him around, pressing his friend's back against his chest as he was trying to check on his vital signs.
"No no, come on man" he muttered and spat water that kept flowing in his mouth because he was having a hard time keeping them both afloat. The Irishman's eyes were closed and he couldn't feel him breathe, and what made it worse was that he knew that he couldn't do anything about it right here on the spot.
"You ain't dying or drowning, yah here me" he demanded and then wrapped an arm around his friend's chest, so he could move him back to the riverbank, away from the devilish liquid. His heart was pounding in his chest, his ears ringing from the exhaustion and the splashing water, and his broken rip stung his insides with every move that he made. None of that mattered though, because Connor wasn't breathing, because he wasn't talking to him or doing anything. It felt like he was dragging a heavy and lifeless wet doll around, but he didn't want it to be like that at all.
"Open your eyes!" he spat and gently kicked the Irishman during one of his swimming motions, but Connor stayed like that, unconscious, unmoving. It felt like it was taking him forever to get his friend out of the water, but when he did he was completely out of breath, exhausted and panicked. He managed to throw his friend back on what was left of the former river walk. He was rather rough because of the exhaustion, and it was the lack of a reaction from Connor that really worried him. His friend was just lying there on the ground, hair and clothes dripping wet and sticking to his body, his chest still and not moving like it should. It didn't look the Irishman had managed to break anything because of that jump, his neck looked alright just like his legs and arms, but he wasn't moving, wasn't doing anything.
"Oh no you don't" Daryl exclaimed in panic and then started pumping, hoping to get his friend to breathe, or spit out all the water. He was too hectic about it and his brain wasn't really functioning, because this was Connor lying there in front of him and not moving, the worst thing that could possibly happen. It was like back in the barn almost a year ago when that bastard had tried to hang himself, and just like back then there was no way he was going to let him suffocate now.
"Come on!" he spat and pumped harder, counting each pump until it was time to do the breathing part.
Connor's lips were cold, too cold and unmoving, and he still wasn't breathing, still wasn't responding.
As soon as he was done with the breathing part he just got more furious, because this couldn't be happening.
"Come on, breathe you bastard" he snarled through his teeth, anger and fear fully rushing over him and making him pump even harder, to a point where he almost feared that he could crush his friend's ribcage. But he needed to keep going, to get all that water out, to get his friend to breathe, because there was no way he… Daryl gritted his teeth and shook his head, feeling the water drip down from his wet hair, running down his cheek and neck. They had managed to get out of this godforsaken place. There was no way that those people had still managed to kill him.
"Breathe!" he yelled as loud as he could, right in the Irishman's face, until he leaned back down and crashed their mouths together to pump more air in his friend's lungs. Although the situation was hectic and all about life and death there was a part of him that was suddenly aware of the fact that their lips were touching, that it was different now because of what had happened last night. It wasn't like they hadn't touched before, considering that this certainly wasn't the first time he was trying to get Connor to breathe again. But still, things had suddenly changed between them, because of his way of thinking, because of his friend's actions, and part of him was terrified yet again, terrified, scared, angry, confused, and maybe a bit disgusted, because even after all this and the obvious caring he still didn't want any of this. Because it was wrong, because Merle and his father had raised him like that. But that wouldn't change anything about the way he felt, thought and acted.
More pumping and yelling at his friend, because now he was getting desperate.
"Come on" he repeated, over and over again, which each pump, head snapping back up every now and then to make sure that no one was coming to get them, to drag them back inside and probably kill them both sooner or later.
His ribs hurt, his arms hurt, and after what felt like the thousands pump Connor finally started coughing water, coughing and grunting and shifting because he had been startled awake, because he was back, and out of the water, shivering, freezing and breathing hot air that still felt cold. Daryl looked back down at him with wide eyes, chest heaving from the effort of having to run, swim and then breathe for two people at once. He let Connor cough for a bit, so his friend could properly breathe again, come back to life and realize what the fuck he'd done yet again, and before he got the chance to say something first Daryl was already back on him, and now he wasn't relieved or happy anymore, now he was just angry.
"You. fuckin. bastard!" he shouted and punched Connor's chest hard with every word, because he couldn't believe…
"Jumping down seven. Fuckin. Stories!" he said and kept hitting his friend, who winced and tried to grab his arms to stop the beating.
"Well it..fuckin…worked, didn't it" Connor answered with rhythmic coughs, still having problems with the whole breathing thing after the jump and nearly drowning in the river. And somehow Daryl's complaints and attacks made him grin, because now he was in that blissful post-adrenaline rush state, because the danger was gone, because they still had each other, because they were doing just fine.
"I fuckin hate you and your goddamn plans" the hunter snapped, still angry, still frustrated and heart pounding in his chest. It made him furious how Connor could just be lying there, underneath him like a half- drowned rat but giving him his dickish grin, like the whole thing had been fun or funny. Part of him wanted to punch the guy's face just to remind him that he wasn't allowed to be cocky all the time, and the anger certainly made his fists clench, but right then the other urge took over, because this was a 'heat of the moment' moment. He fisted Connor's wet and sticky shirt with his one hand while grabbing his messy wet blonde hair with the other, to pull himself down and crash their lips together once more.
Just like the other time before this was sloppy and nothing but angry. He didn't have a clue what he was doing or what he was supposed to do. But they were both running on adrenaline and he had no idea if he ever got the chance to do it again, with Murphy in the picture and his obvious 'no romance crap' and 'absolutely no guys because that's disgusting' rules. And he couldn't stop thinking about the ideas he'd set up, the resolutions, that everything was going to change, as soon as he'd made sure that this bastard underneath him was getting out of that research facility alive. No more beatings. No more denial, but trying to let him know what he -actually- thought and felt.
And here they were, post jump, post near death experiences, and he yanked his friend's hair even harder because he was so goddamn angry and frustrated with the freaking Irishman. But despite the obvious pain he was still trying to cause he was actually surprised that his friend responded to the more gentle gesture. He wouldn't pull away or protest, no, he was actually returning the kiss, although they could hardly call it one. It was the clacking of teeth, biting and maybe even a competition about who could take over and dominate the other. At the same time it was pretty obvious that Connor was more experienced than him, and maybe that embarrassed him a bit, but he didn't want to care right now.
He knew himself pretty well, knew that he was going to mentally slap himself for that move in about a minute, that he was going to shut down and pretend that nothing had happened, probably including another fighting Connor off and beating and yelling at him, should he try to do the same move any time soon. So he savored the moment for as long as he could, until they both finally calmed down a bit.
"Search the river!" they heard someone yell somewhere down the road and broke the kiss abruptly, wiping their mouths in a hurry only to turn their heads and see what was going on. They couldn't see any soldiers yet, and it sounded like they were far away, but certainly not far enough. Both friends were snapped out of their state within the blink of an eye, Daryl jumping back on his feet and Connor sitting up, both of them feeling sober and rational from one second to the next.
The voices reminded them of two distinct things, thinking about them at the exact same moment. Daryl was reminded that they still weren't out of this mess, that he needed to get his friend out of here and as far away from the building as possible. And it reminded Connor of everything he'd heard, seen and done back there, with the soldiers. He swallowed hard with wide eyes and then looked at Daryl, water still dripping from his hair and nose, heart beating faster all over again.
"I gotta find my brother" he said matter of factly, sounding both determined and yet terrified and frantic. Because the memory of seeing all these pictures was still too fresh. Daryl looked back at him, the reminder hitting him square in the face like someone had thrown a brick at him. There it was again. The ghost in the room. The monster under the bed that kept crawling out of its nest at every given opportunity.
Murphy, Murphy, Murphy.
He automatically tensed and clenched his fists, frustration taking over, because their moment got destroyed just like that.
"Let's just get outta here first" he replied dryly, jogging back to his crossbow and backpack which he had dropped on the sidewalk.
It was then when he heard Connor hiss and curse.
He turned around with a worried frown, only to see his friend standing there, with one leg cocked to save it from his weight.
"What?"
The Irishman tried walking but hissed yet again, cursing under his breath in a language that Daryl did not understand.
"I dunno, fuck, think I sprained me ankle cos of the impact" he hissed and Daryl raised an eyebrow.
"You gotta be kidding me" he answered and Connor's head snapped back up, to give him an angry glare.
"Do I look like 'm fuckin kidding? Jesus fuckin Christ" he muttered and still tried walking, half limping, half hobbling away from the river.
"Split up! Search the entire area!" they heard the soldiers again, and Daryl knew that they needed to hurry.
He cursed and adjusted his backpack and crossbow, only to run over to Connor so he could wrap his arm around his waist and help him walk.
"Wrap your arm around my shoulder and move" he grunted and tried running, dragging Connor along with him and forcing him to run way faster than he actually could. He tried to support his friend's weight as good as he could, half carrying him, half helping him run, and although he knew that it probably hurt the Irishman he forced them to keep going, just so they could get away before those soldiers got a chance to catch up with them.