Late afternoon: Shadows grew long across the land and the sun melted in the west, its light smearing the sky like liquid fire. Lynn backed the Bronco off the dirt road and through the open doors of a decrepit barn surrounded by rolling, grassy hills. Lincoln stood inside, waving her back, back, back, then holding up his hand. She cut the engine and jumped out. Hay covered the floor and empty stalls lined one wall; a loft accessed by a rough wooden ladder was cast in deep shadows. The only windows were on the opposite side, letting in shafts of feeble sunlight in which motes danced like pagan revelers. She crossed to the doors, pulled one closed, then the other, setting a long piece of wood in slats braced on either side.
It was just past six and they'd been driving ever since leaving the campsite, Lynn too nervous to stop - encountering a pack of the living dead will do that to you. They did have to take a few breaks to move stalled vehicles out of the road, but she didn't count those as actual stops: She and Lincoln worked quickly, both of them on high alert, looking at their surroundings more than at what their hands were doing. Using the wench was second nature by now, anyway.
By the time Lynn decided to stop for the night, they were three miles south of Hanging Rock, which straddles a river that the map neglected to name. The land surrounding it was hilly and dotted with farms and groves of trees flanking creeks, ponds, and winding dirt roads lined by wire fences. Capon Bridge was only ten miles farther on, but the chances of encountering another smash-up and being caught on the road after dark were too high for her liking, so she had Lincoln look for somewhere to shelter. The barn sat on the edge of a wide field, nestled in a stand of wavering trees and putting Lynn in mind of a Hobbit hole or something from on of those dumb movies she used to watch with Lincoln: Home to an enchanted little woodland elf who smoked a pipe and lived for tending his garden. She couldn't find an access point to the dirt road that serviced it, so she hazard driving down the embankment and across a lumpy meadow.
Presently, she turned and went over to the Bronco just as Luan slipped out, the Glock held tightly in her hand as it had been since that afternoon. For the first hour after leaving the campsite, she trembled slightly, and Lynn threatened to take the gun away lest she shoot someone; she got hold of herself real quick after that.
"Help Lincoln carry the sleeping bags and stuff up to the loft," she said, glancing from her sister to the line of windows along the back wall.
Luan nodded.
Taking out the Desert Eagle, Lynn went to them and peered out, standing on her tippy toes and wiping a circle in the grimy pane with her hand. A field headed by low mountains stretched into the distance, pooling now with soft purple twilight. She looked around, but didn't see anything. Good. Back at the Bronco, Luan unloaded the sleeping bags and handed them to Lincoln, who carried them up the ladder. The movement stirred choking dust, and underneath its earthy scent Lynn could smell the dung of horses past. She wondered briefly if someone let them out in the end of it it was abandoned before. The chickens from earlier weren't the only domesticated animals she'd seen in the wild: Huge herds of horses galloping across the Ohio countryside, packs of cows crossing Main Street in a little town just across the West Virginia border, and feral dogs with collars and sometimes even leashes attached to their necks, a reminder that once upon a time they were someone else.
Pretty soon, she thought, we might go back to having buffalo roaming the plains and Colts running free in the Southwest.
At the hatch, she reached in and grabbed a couple lanterns then took them up to the loft, a wide, shadowy space with hay heaped floors. Lincoln knelt over a bare patch and brushed straw, and dust, away, making a place for them. Lynn's eyes went to his strong, muscular arms, watched them flex with a catch of breath. He sensed her and turned his head; she smiled. "Got some light," she said and held the lanterns up. She went over, dropped to her knees next to him, and lit one, soft, flickering illumination caressed the walls and scattered shadows into cobwebbed corners.
"Be careful with that thing," Lincoln said, "this crap's so dry it'll go up in a second." He nodded at the drifts of hay.
"I'll be careful," Lynn scoffed, then sat the lantern down hard. "Whoops."
He lifted his brow, thoroughly unamused. "Keep playing and the dead will be the least of our problems." He looked her up and down, and her heart inexplicably skipped a beat. "Actually, they already are."
Lynn grimaced and punched him in the arm. "Ouch," he said and grinned. "You're gonna keep it up and I'm going to bodyslam you off this loft."
"Pfft. You'd have to lift me first, noodle arms." She flicked his bicep. It was firm and defined. Not Mr. Universe level, but certainly not noodly. He stared thoughtfully at her for a moment, then got to his feet, her eyes following his. "What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously and started to stand. Before she could, though, he shot his arms out and wrapped them around her, his hands lacing in the small of her back. He drew her close, their faces hovering inches apart, and Lynn's heart started to race. He smirked and lifted her off her feet - her heart shot into her throat and laughter burst past her lips. "Put me down!" she cried and thrashed, trying to upset his balance but failing. Red-faced and straining, he spun around and started toward the edge of the loft, swaying back and forth and stumbling against her resistance.
"Noooo!" she cried.
"You're going over," Lincoln grunted teasingly. "Enjoy the fall."
She desperately tried to break his grasp, her body squirming against his and her feet kicking bare inches off the ground. The back of her shirt rode slightly up and Lincoln almost dropped her, but steadied his grip, his warm palms brushing the strip of flesh between the waistband of her jeans and the hem of her shirt. Her heart slammed painfully against her chest, but not from fear, and her stomach knotted. His body grazed against hers, and strange feelings stirred in the pit of her stomach, feelings that made her blood run cold. The urge to throw her arms around him and cling tight, to breathe in his scent and hold him safe against the world, to be held safe against the world, came over her. For a panicky moment, she was frozen. Lincoln's eyes met hers, and electricity seemed to form in the air between them. He stopped walking and she stopped fighting; she could see in his eyes that whatever she was feeling, he was feeling too.
When Luan spoke behind them, they both jumped, Lincoln releasing his grip and Lynn landing on her feet with a stumble. "Will you guys be quiet?" Her voice was a stern, hissing whisper. Lynn swallowed thickly and looked at Lincoln, whose eyes were wide with something approaching guilt. He turned quickly away and raked a hand through his hair. "Yeah, s-sorry," he muttered and took an aimless step before glancing at the sleeping bags. "I'm...just gonna set these up."
Lynn stared after him for a moment, then darted her eyes to the floor. "I-I need to get stuff from the c-car." Looking at her feet in shame, she brushed past Luan and hurried down the ladder, the rungs creaking rustily under her weight. At the back of the Bronco, she slapped her hands on the matted upholstery and bowed her head, her breathing suddenly ragged and her heart pumping wildly.
What was that?
She licked her lips and took a deep breath.
She knew exactly what it was.
An image of Lincoln's face right before Luan found them appeared in her mind - his eyes wide and pregnant with understanding, as though he'd just learned a great and terrible secret. She saw his lips, so warm and inviting, and she realized here, now, that if Luan hadn't stopped them, she probably would have kissed him.
Her own brother.
But God help her, standing at the rear of a Ford Bronco in gathering dusk, she realized that she didn't care. She would have ran her fingers through his hair, flicked her tongue across his, and then laid him back in the hay...and when it was over, she would have held him to her naked breast and never let him go.
A shiver raced down her spine and she took another deep breath, seeking but not finding serenity. She glanced up at the loft, then down at her own shaky hands. She'd...she'd ignore it..o-or something. I-It really wasn't right. God, your own brother? Kissing his lips and...and being with him? Gross. It's just...stress. That's all. It's easy to get mixed up at the end of the world, and that's what she was, mixed up. And scared. And worried. And every other negative emotion you can possibly list, and when you're like that, something like your brother holding you in his arms and making you feel safe and comfortable seems pretty damn nice. Bad times, you know, they spawn bad ideas; in the dark, you can't tell what's good and what isn't, and vice versa. It might look good, it might sound good, it might even feel good, but it's not.
It's not.
Sighing, she slammed the hatch and cast an anxious look at the ladder leading to the loft. She had a moment, that's it, just a momentary lapse of reason, but now she was back in control. She took a step toward the ladder but faltered; the ghost of Lincoln's touch haunted her skin, and the fluttering in her stomach told her that she wasn't back in control of anything...and that she never had been. She'd been in charge of the group since Lori died, and in that time, everyone she loved who made it through fell one by one until it was just her, Luan, and Lincoln. She failed them and now she was...she didn't know what she was doing. Something stupid? Wouldn't be the first time, and it might very well not be the last either.
And like all the times she did something stupid before, she had to suck it up and power through. Drawing a deep, determined breath, she climbed the ladder, and found Lincoln and Luan setting up the sleeping bags. Lincoln's shoulders tensed when he heard her, and she looked hurriedly away, her eyes falling on a box of MREs. She wasn't hungry but dinner sounded like a good distraction. "You guys want some food?" she asked.
"Sure," Luan said.
Lincoln didn't respond. "L-Linc?" she asked tentatively.
"Yeah," he said.
They sat in a circle around the sleeping bags and ate by the glow of the lanterns. The sun had fully set, and darkness surrounded them; the lullng sound of cricket noises found Lynn's ears, but did little to ease the disquiet in the pit of her stomach. She stole furtive glances at Lincoln, who leaned against a slanted support beam with one knee drawn up to his chest and the other leg straight out in front of him. He ate slowly, staring down at the patch of floor between his legs, almost as if he were afraid to look up and meet her eyes; that made her stomach turn. Was he feeling the same things she was? Did he notice the way the atmosphere between them crackled the way she did? Did he want to kiss her as badly as she wanted to kiss him?
Her heart knocked unsteadily at the thought that maybe he did, and restless energy filled her body. If the night without wasn't fraught with danger, she'd take a long moonlit walk to clear her head, but it was, and she was trapped in this uncomfortably hot space, smelling hay and dirt and lingering horse, and sneaking unsisterly looks at her little brother. Her arms ached to wrap themselves around his body, her chest to feel the beating of his heart next to hers, her lips to graze his, tasting his breath and…
Gahhh.
She sat her food aside and got got to her feet, not knowing where she was going or what she was doing, only that she needed space. She started toward the ladder, aware that Luan and Lincoln were both watching her, then grabbed the Springfield as an afterthought. "I'm gonna look around," she said, "make sure everything's okay." That was a believable enough excuse. Gotta protect the homestead.
WIthout waiting for a reply, she descended, holding the rifle in one hand and gripping the rungs with the other. At the bottom, wrapped in night, she turned and leaned back against the ladder, putting one hand to her temple and rubbing firmly as though by doing so she could ease the thoughts swirling through her head.
How long had she felt this way about her younger brother? The emotion wasn't new, far from it - it had been festering below the surface, and though she'd suspected that it was there, she never looked too deeply, never lingered. Lincoln had been her rock this entire time, she'd admired and felt overly affectionate toward him since almost the beginning of their journey east. She'd noticed his body, his rugged features, his muscles, his budding masculinity, but she never fully realized how much she appreciated those things.
Hint: Too much.
She sighed deeply and threw her head back. Two months on the road, two months of death and destruction, two months of being afraid, two months of the world bearing down on her shoulders...two months of her body continuing its endless cycle, two months of secretly wanting to be held and cuddled and reassured, of wanting to feel safe. The only man she'd seen in that time was Lincoln...the only man she knew to even be alive was him. Naturally she'd gravitate toward him, right? Incest in the hills (something for which this very state is infamous) doesn't happen just because. The people are isolated, alone, and like anyone else, they have physical and emotional needs, and she knew all too well that when those needs aren't met, you start to go a little crazy. In prison, that femboy down the block starts to look like Beyonce after a while, and in the holler, or the apocalypse, your brother starts to to be not your blood, but a man…
A wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Fucked up line of reasoning, huh? And sparked almost entirely by him picking her up and threatening to throw her off a hayloft. With another sigh, she pushed away from the ladder and went around the front of the Bronco; shafts of moonlight fell through fissures in the ceiling and bathed the darkness in a warm glow. At the door, she peered through the gap between them - two inches, if that - and saw only the night, a cool breeze slipping through and caressing her face. She made her way to the back windows next, moving slowly to avoid making too much noise. At one of the panes, she looked through, but glimpsed only blackness.
As far as she could tell, they were safe.
She went back over to the ladder and leaned against it again.
What was she going to do?
She didn't know...and didn't want to. Get to Washington. Be safe. Then?
'Then' was a hazy, dreamlike borderland that she hadn't penetrated yet. She'd been so focused on actually getting there that she never stopped to wonder what came next. Now's as good a time as any to ponder, right? If she was thinking about that, she wasn't thinking about Lincoln.
When she pictured Washington, she imagined power, phones, internet - that things would be as they were before. Deep down, though, she knew the old world was gone, and if it ever came back, she'd be an old woman by the time it did. They, the living, would have to start over, rebuild from the ground up, claw their way back to the top, and no matter what they did, things would not be the same.
It was a thought terrifying yet exhilarating.
She brushed her bangs out of her face and turned her head slightly to the side, her eyes falling on a rough-hewn support post. In an errant moonbeam, she discerned writing, or rather a carving. Leaning close and squinting, she read it: A heart containing the characters H.L. + F.G. Hieroglyphics from an ancient civilization etched by a smitten heart long stilled. In a fit of fancy that wasn't like her, she wondered if F.G. loved H.L. back or if it was unrequited.
Loving someone who doesn't love you is the worst, isn't it? Lynn didn't think she'd ever actually loved someone - such a strong and mysterious emotion - but she'd certainly had crushes on boys who didn't feel the same. To them she was a friend, just one of the guys, always picked for the team but never for the dance. It's like they never saw her as a girl. Heh. My fault, I guess. I never wanted to be a pretty pink princess, I wanted to roughhouse and have fun. I'm still a girl, though, and sometimes I just want to be held.
Especially now.
She acted strong because that's what her family needed, but inside, she wasn't - she thought she was at one time, but when the shit hit the fan, she turned weak-kneed and quivering, and no matter how hard she tried, the people closest to her kept dying. She could argue that it wasn't her fault a ghoul popped out of nowhere and got Leni, and Lori, and that she had no choice but to leave Lucy and Luna...this is a fallen world and shit happens...but she was the leader, she was the one they looked to for safety and protection…
...and she couldn't give it to them. She failed when they needed her most. She didn't dwell too much because when you're driving along a hazardous road, you don't stare into the rearview mirror: If you do, you crash, and you have your brother and sister to think about. When they got to Washington, though, once things were back to the way they used to be, or close enough (please, God, it has to be), she'd dwell plenty. For the rest of her life, probably. She'd see the horror in Lucy and Luna's eyes as she left them until the day she died - it fact, she wouldn't be surprised if it was the last thing that went through her mind before death took her.
She didn't realize that tears stood in her eyes until she blinked; she brushed them away and turned from the heart.
No, she was not strong, and sometimes she just wanted to be held and comforted. She thought of Lincoln, up there in the loft, her own brother, her strong, capable, handsome brother. Yeah, it was wrong, but she didn't care, she suddenly wanted it so bad she doubled slightly over as if with a cramp. They didn't even have to do anything wrong...he could just put his arms around her and pull her to his chest; stroke her hair; kiss the back of her neck with his warm breath; sooth her with his scent and the sound of his voice.
Her heartbeat sped up and her stomach pinched.
That's all she wanted. She didn't have to turn in his arms and lay her hand on his cheek, didn't really need to gaze longingly into his eyes, or lean slowly in and press her lips to his, to taste his mouth and make love to his tongue with hers, to explore his toned chest with her hand…
A pang of desire rippled from her center and she let out a shivery, pent-up breath. She didn't have to, but she wanted to, damn it.
We're in the right state for it. West Virginia must be getting to me.
She looked up and over her shoulder; faint firelight flickered across the walls and the low sound of Lincoln and Luan talking drifted to her ears. Part of her wanted to go back up there, to sit next to him and maybe creep her hand into his, but another part, a small but vocal part, wanted to stay away. He's your brother; it's not right; you might ruin your relationship with him; scare him off; it's the end of the world, you don't have time to catch feelings; excuse, excuse, excuse. Or maybe it was logic and but I really want it was the excuse.
Sgh. She didn't know. Matters of the heart are hella confusing...so are matters of the mind, when you come right down to it. She couldn't stay down here forever, and she couldn't avoid Lincoln forever...even if she wanted to.
Which she didn't.
Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she climbed the ladder; Lincoln sat where she'd left him, and Luan was snuggled in her sleeping back, eyes closed. "...that one," she was saying.
"Best prank you ever pulled," Lincoln replied with a sad, remisencet smile. He glanced up at Lynn, then quickly back down at his lap. Lynn hesitated, then went over and sat on her sleeping bag next to Luan. She unshouldered the rifle and sat it against the wall, then, in the absence of anything else to do, scooted down and stretched out. The silence was heavy and dark, and for a long time she searched her mind for something to say, but found nothing. Maybe things would look better in the morning.
She kicked her shoes off and rolled onto her side.
Or maybe...maybe they would look the same.