STR2D3PO: Certainly not from season four, episode nine of The Walking Dead. See, in mine, Lynn shares the pudding, in TWD, Carl hogs it all to himself like an inconsiderate pig.
HangingSoul: What would your version be about?
They left half an hour after the first rays of the sun crested over the mountaintops, its light spreading through the trees like creeping fingers. Going down the mountain was easier than coming up, and in less than fifteen minutes they were passing Fatboy's - Lynn glanced in the rearview mirror and found the rugged cross that marked Lisa's final resting place. Her heart twinged, and she turned back toward the road.
In the passenger seat, Lincoln held the M-16 between his legs, the barrel pointed at the ceiling. He wore jeans and his vest over a black T-shirt that clung tight to his chest. He stared out the window and watched the world flash by, his face inscrutable.
As they approached Brandywine, Lynn eased off the gas and decelerated. A half mile out, the first signs of fire appeared, the ground and trees scorched black. A burned out car sat lengthwise across the road, and Lynn swerved around it, her eyes darting to the blackened skeleton slumped behind the wheel, its head back and its jaw slack in a frozen scream. She halfway expected it to turn its head and shriek in madness. The afterlife is worse. A bead of ice dropped down her spine and she shuddered.
In town, Route 33 curved north. Charred buildings, slanted telephone poles, and more husks of vehicles flanked the road. Lynn turned and followed the road for three miles before the devastation petered out. Flat pastureland fell away on either side, trees crowding along decaying wooden fences and overhanging rusted metal gates. A blue and white Ford sat on its hood in the middle of the road, and Lynn spun the wheel, swinging wide around it, then the other way to avoid a suitcase. Splintered power poles dotted the way, and beyond them the outbuildings of a farm appeared. Lynn was honestly surprised by the number of farms she'd seen across the state: She always assumed that West Virginia was all mountain hollers and moonshine stills, but it teemed with cattle and poultry farms featuring big, narrow two story coops that housed hundreds.
Speaking of chickens, she spotted a flock making their way across a field, some of them running headlong and others jumping into the air, their wings flapping impotantly. They must have gotten out of their pen at some point right after things fell apart, or else someone released them. "Chickens," Lincoln said.
"That's crazy, right?" Lynn asked and turned back to the road. "Not something you see every day."
"I should try and peg one," he said and patted the M-16. "Or three."
Lynn snorted. "Wanna shoot something, huh?"
"Not really," he said, "but tell me chicken doesn't sound good."
Ummm, actually, yes, it did. Lynn couldn't remember the last time she had chicken...or beef...or any fresh meat, for that matter. By the time they left Royal Woods, the power had been out for close to a week and all the perishables at the grocery store were rotting; in the months since, they'd subsisted entirely on canned and dried foods.
Her mouth started to water.
"Pull over," Lincoln said.
Lynn glanced at him. "Are you serious?"
"As a heart attack."
In the back, Luan looked anxiously out the window, perhaps scanning the distance for ghouls, her hands twisting in her lap. "I don't know if that's such a good idea," she said. "We should just keep going."
Lynn was already pulling to the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. "Do you even know the first thing about cleaning an animal, Linc?" Lynn asked playfully.
"Not at all," Lincoln admitted. "But I'll try like hell." He opened the door and got out, Luan watching him go with a flicker of apprehension. Lynn threw her door open, stood, then leaned over the seat and grabbed her Springfield. Call her sadistic, but pegging a few chickens sounded kind of fun.
Gun in hand, she slammed the door, went around the front end, and stood next to her brother, who held the M-16 lengthwise, the barrel pointed at the ground. A warm breeze washed over them, bringing with it a dank, earthy smell that reminded Lynn of bogs she used to explore as a child, where the ground was spongy, the water stagnant, and the wildlife strange, hostile even. In a way, she thought now, the world had become a bog: A big, giant, monster haunted bog.
Roughly the distance of a football field separated them from the birds, who'd stopped to bicker. You never ask for directions, Harold. Lincoln lifted the gun, wedged the stock into the crook of his shoulder, and stared down the sight. "See that fat one on the end?" he asked.
Lynn scanned the crowd and spotted it. "Yeah," she said.
Lincoln nodded. "His ass is mine."
Behind them, Luan opened her door and turned to face them, knees pressed together, but didn't get out. She held a Glock in her hand and cast worried glances over her shoulder, watching for the living dead. She was passable with the gun - Lynn taught her how to shoot on the road - but that didn't matter since she had a way of freezing up.
Like Lynn did last night.
She forced that thought away and watched the flock, waiting for Lincoln to fire. "Go on, Annie Oakley," she teased. Lincoln was a decent shot too, at long range; up close, he was a great shot. Even better than Lynn - she was surprised at how well he took to shooting. She expected him to treat guns like they were temperamental animals that bite if touched wrong, instead he treated them like a favorite pet. Funny how people adapt in times of crisis, isn't it?
I need you to step it up, she told him in Royal Woods. They were sitting side-by-side in the upstairs hall, backs against a closed door. Panic and pandemonium had set in and everyone was too scared to even move lest they attract the dead. I...I can't do this alone. I need you to be strong. We all need you to be strong.
He stepped it up, alright, and Lynn felt a sudden rush of pride in him - if he wasn't getting ready to fire a weapon, she'd snake her arm around his shoulder, drag his head to her chest, and give him a big, affectionate noogie.
Taking a deep breath, he lined up the shot and jerked the trigger: The report shattered the preternatural silence and rang through the hills like thunder. The chicken Lincoln pointed out fell, and his comrades scattered to the wind. Uh-oh. Better get while the getting's good: Lynn raised her gun, tracked a fleeing bird, and squeezed the trigger: The bullet struck the ground in front of it and kicked up dirt. The chicken jumped and ran faster. Shit. She cocked the bolt, expended the cartridge, and aimed again. Next to her, Lincoln fired, missing and striking a fence post. "You gotta do better than that, baby boy," she laughed.
Lincoln swung the gun around and fired again, knocking a chicken down in its tracks. "Hit one then talk to me," he said.
Oh? That sounded like a challenge, and if there's one thing that Lynn Loud loved, it was a challenge. She aimed at a chicken streaking across the field, apart from the others, and lined up the shot. She pulled the trigger, and its head evaporated in a red mist. "Boom, headshot!" She arched her brow and pursed her lips in her best smug expression.
"You got lucky," he said, "watch this." He aimed and fired; the round kicked up dirt three feet in front of a fleeing bird.
Lynn snickered. "Impressive."
"I was going for its legs," he grumbled, embarrassed.
"Well, you missed." She aimed at the same chicken and squeezed off a shot that hit it dead center, driving it to the ground. "There," she chirped haughilty, "got it for you."
The remaining chickens, close to a dozen, were white blips in the distance, too far away to bother worrying about. Three bodies lay in the grass, two from her and one from him. She laid the rifle against the crook of her neck and smirked at him. "I win."
Lincoln drew a deep sigh. "Yeah, well, if…"
Luan screamed.
As one, Lincoln and Lynn whipped around, instincts kicking in and overriding everything else. Three ghouls shambled across the black top, their arms outstretched and their eyes glowing with malignant yellow light. The closest was at the front end of the Bronco, its body bumping into the driver side corner. Lincoln lifted the gun and fired - the bullet tore through its head in a shower of rotted flesh and jagged bone fragments. It dropped to one side and the one immediately behind it tripped, its head striking the pavement so hard it died.
Lynn started to lift her gun to take care of the third, but Lincoln cut her off, the round hitting it below the right eye and blowing out the back of its head. It went stiff and fell back, hitting the blacktop with a sickly crack. Lincoln looked at her and flashed a tight, wan smile that didn't touch his eyes. "I win," he said.
The grim, serious expression on his face struck her as funny, and she laughed. "Alright, big boy, you win," she said, then twisted her head around to look over her shoulder. "Your prize is to go get those chickens we shot."
He stared at her, then slowly shrugged. "Alright." He propped the M-16 against the front end and started down the embankment. "Cover me," he said.
"No shit," Lynn said. Of course she was going to cover him - he was almost the only thing she had in the world. Hell, she wouldn't have sent him out there if it wasn't so flat and open that nothing in the world could possibly sneak up on him. She glanced over her shoulder at Luan; the older girl's face was ashen and she trembled slightly. "We're leaving in a minute," Lynn assured her, then turned back to Lincoln just as he stooped and snatched up on of the chickens. "Just as soon as Linc gets our dinner."
Luan nodded jerkily.
Birds in hand, Lincoln came back and held them up for Lynn's inspection - one was downright scrawny, one was alright, and the one Lincoln shot was plump, its bones supporting enough meat to feed all three of them twice over. She whistled her appreciation. "Good job. Now how are we going to keep them? Stores are all outta ice."
Lincoln looked at the chickens and took a deep breath. "There's a town up the road...about ten miles. We can maybe stop there and cook them. Or on the road somewhere. Depending."
On the dead, he meant.
"Good," Lynn said of the town, "we need fuel anyway."
While Lincoln stowed the carcasses in the back, Lynn climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door. Luan came to life like a statue, slow and ponderous, and sat the gun on the seat next to her. Lynn frowned at her in the rearview mirror - they needed Washington for Luan alone. She'd never make it out here. How she came this far was beyond Lynn. Luck, she figured. Or the grace of God.
Lincoln slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed behind him. "We got company," he said. Lynn glanced in the mirror, and saw two ghouls staggering toward them, about a quarter mile back.
"We made too much noise," Lynn said and threw the gear shift into drive, "oops."
From there, the 33 wound through low, tree crowded foothills boasting white frame houses with green roofs and the occasional church or community hall. The sky stretched into forever, and giant white clouds sailed across like galleons at sea. The only sound was the hum of tires on pavement and the sporadic rustle of fabric as Luan shifted positions uncomfortably. Lynn hated silence, because in the quiet, her mind always began to work, the memories and doubts to come. "What's up with this town?" she asked to fill the void. 33 bent upwards and to the right as it crossed a low, time worn mountain.
"It's called Franklin," Lincoln said, "it's bordered to the southwest by...the south branch of the Potomac." There was a hesitation as he tried to remember the name of the river. "33 meets N. Main Street in a Y shape. That's pretty much all I know."
Hm. Too bad Google Maps wasn't still up and running. That'd be a lifesaver.
Literally.
"How big?"
A UPS truck lie on its side like a wounded animal. Perfect visual metaphor for the collapse of civilization, isn't it? The mail runs rain, sleet, or shine, but not through zombies. She eased up on the gas and pulled wide around; packages littered the road, and the tires crushed a few underfoot.
Lincoln considered his response for a moment. "Not big. And turn right onto Main. Outside town it turns into Route 220 and we follow that for…" he scrunched his brows in thought. "Ninety miles before we hit Capon Bridge."
"That in Virginia, right?"
"West Virginia," Lincoln corrected. "220 turns into Route 50 and crosses into Virginia a couple miles later."
Lynn called up a vision of the map she and Lincoln studied the night before. "There's a big town close by, right? In Virginia?"
"Winchester," Lincoln said. "It's fairly big. We can swing around north or south. If we go north we can cross back into West Virginia then into Maryland. From there we just follow the Potomac in." They were at the summit now: In the west, mountains rolled like frozen waves, and directly ahead, a small town huddled on the banks of a wide river: Lynn spotted a white church steeple, a blue water tower, and a red brick schoolhouse on a hill, its narrow front windows glinting in the sun like knowing eyes. Tree lined streets flanked by quaint brick-and-glass storefronts and comfortable old houses formed a rough, sloppy grid. "We're gonna have to go through some urban sprawl either way, but north is less dense."
Lynn nodded. "North it is," she said.
After descending from the hills, 33 crossed into Franklin over a green truss bridge; the paint was beginning to fleck in places, and the steel to rust. Seen from a distance, the village looked so wholesome, so normal, that for a moment it was hard to believe that anything was wrong there - the shops would all be open and the sidewalks busy with people enjoying the late summer weather. On closer inspection, however, you could see telltale warning signs: Overturned trash cans; broken glass littering the pavement like twinkling stars; a power line hanging slack across Main; two crashed cars in a T; a dead cat in the gutter, its bones picked clean. A ghoul shambled into the street, and Lynn instinctively hit the gas. The Bronco rocketed forward with a low vroom and the thing turned just as the front end hit: It doubled over the hood then disappeared under the tires, the Bronco rocking. Lincoln snorted laughter, and Lynn flashed a devious grin. "Ten points" she said. In the back, Luan hugged herself.
Ahead, the highway forked, the left hand route going up a hill and turning out of sight, and the right going down a hill. A Shell station sat in the middle, a fuel tanker sitting in the parking lot and facing out, the driver side door standing open. Lynn guided the Branco in and pulled to one of the pumps. Fill 'er up, pleeze. She cut the engine and jumped out, grabbing the Springfield and slinging it over her shoulder. Lincoln got out and went around back. Luan stayed where she was, which was just as well.
Lincoln pulled the hatch open while Lynn looked around for undead; crows cawed alone in the sky, and a warm wind blew forlornly through the streets, rustling leaves and pushing bits of litter across the asphalt with an eerie scritch. No matter how long she spent out here, she would never get used to the unnatural silence holding sway. The world is supposed to be noisy, even if only a little: Car engines, people talking, phones ringing, planes flying overhead. Two months after the end, however, all the cars were stalled, the people were dead, phone service out, and the planes grounded. Sometimes, standing among the cemetery quiet, she wanted to scream just so there was something.
"Here," Lincoln said and handed her a red gas can. He took a coil of rubber hose and a thin metal rod and slammed the hatch, his eyes going to the truck. "You think it'd be easier to get some outta there?" he asked.
Hours after the final techs abandoned their posts at the power plants, the grid crashed and rolling blackouts spread across the country like ink. No electric meant that the pumps no longer worked - they'd been getting gas by tapping directly into the underground storage tanks, a process that they'd repeated so many times since Royal Woods that they had it down to a science; Lynn timed them once, and they were always done in just over five minutes. They'd never taken any from a tanker before, and Lynn really didn't want to try now. "Probably not. Just stick to what we know."
Lincoln shrugged. "Whatever."
With another glance over her shoulder, Lynn followed Lincoln over to a metal manhole cover flush with the ground. He knelt and she remained standing, covering him. He found purchase, and dragged it off with a strained grunt; it made a spine tingling scraping sound that seemed much, much louder in the total silence than it really was. She imagined every ghoul within a ten mile radius hearing and turning toward the noise, beginning a slow but inevitable march forward...like death itself.
Lincoln unscrewed the cap of the tank, tossed it aside, and jammed the hose in. He brought it to his lips, sucked, then turned and spat a mouthful of gasoline onto the ground. "Can," he said and held out his hand. Lynn gave it to him and glanced back toward the street.
Still empty.
"You think this is the best place to cook chicken?" she asked uncertainly.
Lincoln looked over his shoulder and swept the town with his gaze, then ticked his head from side to side. "Probably not. We can stop later somewhere, just...I don't wanna wait too long. I don't know how long they'll keep." The gas can was full now; he yanked the hose out and got to his feet. In the street, three ghouls slouched toward them in an ambling gant, their arms out in front of them and their shoulders squared. Lynn unshoulder the Springfield, aimed at one, and fired, hitting it in the face and spinning it around. She didn't destroy the brain, though - it pushed itself back to its feet.
Setting aside the gas can, Lincoln got up and came over, slinging the M-16 off his shoulder and lifting it. Oh no. Lynn hip checked him and he stumbled. "Get outta here, Linc-O," she said airily. "I saw 'em first."
Lincoln blew a raspberry. "You took a shot and missed. It's my turn." He lifted the gun and stepped forward, his eye peering down the sight.
Lynn watched, then as he pulled the trigger: "Miss!"
He jerked ever so slightly, and the shot went wild, striking a stop sign with a metallic ping. She grinned proudly, and he turned to her, his expression dour. "Now, that was cheating."
"No it wasn't," she said chiruped and brought the Springfield up. She glanced at him and rolled her eyes at his tight-lipped smile. Sure, it said, okay. "You were gonna miss anyway." She aimed, but whipped her head around when Lincoln bumped his elbow into her side, her ponytail lashing like a whip. "Cut it out, Linc," she said, "you're gonna make me miss."
Lincoln snorted. "That's the point."
The ghouls were closer now, a hundred feet and closing in...albeit at a snail's pace. If they kept going back and forth like this, they'd be kibble by Christmas. Lynn aimed the gun and shot a warning look at her brother: Brows raised, head tilted forward. "No spoiling me this time."
Lincoln held his hands up, left palm flat, right gripping the M-16's stock. "Go ahead." He glanced at the Bronco: Luan sat with her legs perched on the running board, dividing her attention between them and everything else, her eyes darting left, right, front, and back for signs of approaching danger. She clutched the Glock in one hand, so tight her knuckles were white. Lynn turned slowly away from Lincoln, but watched him from the corner of her eye, the corners of her mouth turned up. She'd always loved messing with her little brother; over the past two months, she hadn't had the chance (too busy staying alive), and she'd forgotten how much she enjoyed their banter.
She returned her focus to the advancing ghouls, lined up with one's head, and pulled the trigger. The shot took it in the forehead, and it fell over, dead. "Boom," she said, pronouncing the word slowly, teasingly, "head shot." Lincoln shook his head longsufferingly, and she grinned. Dork.
Bringing the rifle around, she aimed at the second and fired - it, too, fell dead. "You can have the last one," she said. Might as well let him bag one so he didn't start crying like a baby.
"Thanks," he said sarcastically. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, and Lynn lifted a quizzical brow.
"You gonna shoot it with your finger?" she asked.
"Nope," Lincoln said. He reached into the holster on his hip and pulled out his Beretta.
Lynn blew a raspberry. "Big man going for the handgun."
"That's right," Lincoln said. He cupped his right hand in his left palm and extended his arms, his feet planting apart. "Takes more skill than that bitch gun you got there."
Lynn laughed. "Bitch gun?"
"Umhm," Lincoln said. He aimed, and Lynn considered kneeing him in the crotch or stomach, but figured that that might be going a little too far, so she turned to the ghoul and watched as Lincoln's round struck it in the head, knocking it to one side. He shot it again. "Just because," he said.
Lynn turned toward the Bronco and patted his shoulder. "Good job, killer, now let's go. I want some of that chicken." She bent down, grabbed the gas can and hose, and carried them over. She opened the tank, unscrewed the cap, and inserted the nozzle, holding the can at an angle. Luan watched her, anxious eyes flicking up and down. Lynn felt a sudden rush of irritation with her sister. Lincoln adapted, she adapted, but Luan hadn't, and that put her at risk of dying. Lynn had already lost too many people she loved, and the thought of Luan letting herself stay a nervous wreck until it killed her scared and pissed her off. She drew a deep breath and looked away from her sister, perhaps in shame at what she was about to say. "You really need to suck it up," she said. "You're going to get yourself killed."
Luan didn't reply, and from the corner of her eye, Lynn saw her bow her head. Softening her tone, she continued. "I know it's scary. I'm scared too. That's why I need you to be strong." A lump of emotion formed in her throat. "I worry about you and Linc every second of every day. I can trust Linc to at least handle himself. I can't with you."
Across the parking lot, Lincoln stooped down and snatched something off the ground. Lynn focused on him and did her best not to look at Luan. It was true, she did worry about both of them. Lincoln was better equipped to take care of himself, more so than any of the others had been. That didn't put him out of harm's way, but it did lessen the burden on her, even if just a little. Luan leaned on her almost entirely - she could cook, she knew a little first aid from Lisa, and she could lift, push, and pull as well as her scrawny frame would allow, but she couldn't protect herself. She froze the way Lynn did yesterday, only she did it every single time. She carried that gun around like a girl with a magic talisman, but when the time came to actually use it, she seized. Little good it did her. It might as well be a freaking potato.
Lincoln turned and started walking over, his stride easy and sure. Lynn couldn't help looking him up and down and marvelling at how much he had changed. He seemed taller, fuller. Some of that was puberty, she imagined, but most of it was simply a projection of his inner strength. Or something. She wasn't the best with analogies and stuff, but when she looked at him, she felt that she saw not only what was on the outside but what was on the inside as well. When she looked at Luan, she saw what was inside too - the girl, taller than Lincoln and broader in the shoulders, was smaller than him. Weak. Shriveled. Like a child. A child that needed a level of protection and reassurance that Lynn couldn't spare...not here, not now. In Washington, where things were certainly normal and safe, she would - she'd hold Luan in her lap like a mother and hug her close, but here, in the wild, she couldn't, She needed her to be self-sufficient, at least to an extent. She could only protect her siblings so much, hold their hand so far.
"I'm sorry," Luan said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lynn took the nozzle out and screwed the cap back on. "I just don't wanna lose you." She carried the empty can around to the hatch without looking at her sister and stuck it in back, then slammed the door. Lincoln stood on the other side staring down at something in his hand. An inexplicable smile touched her lips and she went over to stand next to him. "What'cha got, Linc-O?" she asked, her hand going to his shoulder. It was toned and warm under her palm; she squeezed and affectionately stroked the side of his neck with her thumb.
He held up a green piece of paper. "A picture of some dead guy."
Squinting, Lynn studied it. A hundred dollar bill, Ben Franklin staring back and looking constipated. She plucked it out of his hand and held it up to the sun. "I don't think I've ever held a hundred dollar bill," she mused. Growing up, money was tight and hard to come by. She made a little shoveling neighbors' driveways and stuff, but never much. She didn't think she'd ever had more than fifty dollars at any given time.
"No?" Lincoln asked and leaned into her, their shoulders touching. He stared up at the money and scrunched his lips.
"Nope," Lynn said and shoved it into her pocket with a challenging grin. "I've never owned one either. Until now."
Lincoln chuckled. "Have fun spending it."
She shrugged one shoulder. "When we get to Washington." With that, she turned and started around the Bronco, casting a glance at Lincoln over her shoulder; a breeze stirred his snowy hair and the rays of the morning sun fell over him like shafts of gold. "Maybe I'll split it with you."
"Gee, I sure hope so."
The sarcasm in his voice made her giggle. He was strong, fast, handsome, a good shot, and witty. She was very proud of him.
Mom and Dad would be too.
That thought stuck in her heart like a knife, and her warm smile turned cold.
In the Bronco, she slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition, then pulled a U-turn and braked at the street. "Which way do I take at the fork?" she asked.
"Right," Lincoln said instantly.
She turned right, and soon, the houses dotting the street fell away and were replaced by thick forest. For the first ten miles, the South Branch of the Potomac matched the highway bend for bend before twisting away like a slithering snake. On the left, a rundown trailer park appeared, the sign flanking the main entrance blaring HAPPY HILLS MOBILE HOME COURT. It didn't look too happy: Rusted, tumbledown single wides, dirt lot, canned porches, dead bodies. The end of one trailer faced the road - a big Confederate flag hung in the window. Hm. Was this part of the south during the war? She wasn't sure, but she kind of thought it was a border state.
Not that it mattered. Not that anything like that mattered anymore. Oh, at one point it did, but when something happens, when civilizations fall, you learn real quick what matters and what doesn't, what's real and what isn't. See, a lot of things that are so vital to us, so ingrained, are man made constructs that don't mean squat when you leave the village and walk into the jungle. Like democracy. And fairness. Do you think the wild is fair? Is there equality? Nope, sorry. The lion is faster and stronger than the gazelle, and that's all there is it to it. Things happen and they might be what we call unfair, but do you know what the law of nature calls it? Tough shit. What we call society is but a thin veneer covering a seething mass of wilderness. It took hours for the electrical grid to crash, weeks, a month maybe, for everything we spent thousands of years building to fall. The means of that destruction are irrelevant - zombies, bubonic plague, nuclear war - the point is that human beings clawed their way to the top, we mastered the earth and the elements...but it was all an illusion. Oh, we had a grip...the same way a man dangling from a high place has a grip. One wrong move and bam, it's all over.
Lynn sighed and glanced at Lincoln, her eyes tracing the strong curve of his jaw and his deep-set eyes. So different from the boy she left Royal Woods with at the end of June, a reminder that people are not static, they grow and change. She'd changed...in fact, she and Lincoln passed each other in opposite directions - he became much stronger, and she became weaker. She never worried herself sick before, never cried, never woke up from nightmares with a scream bursting against the inside of her lips. Now she did.
In a way, though, isn't worrying a strength in of itself? Worry breeds caution, and in moderation, caution is one of the handiest survival tools you can ever have. Recklessness gets you killed, and since it fell to her to protect her siblings, the springboard bravado she cultured back in Royal Woods went out the window real quick. Maybe if it was just her, she'd risk it, but it wasn't. She had Luan to worry about, and Lincoln too. Her precious Lincoln.
She didn't want to lose him. Or Luan.
They meant everything to her.
Especially Lincoln.