Disclaimer: Fin is Mine, as is her storyline; everyone else is borrowed without permission, I promise to be nice to them though! :)

Notes: We are having a bit of a snow-maggedon here, so I'll probably be stuck inside (hopefully writing) for the next few days. I'll try to get the next chapter out before the weekend. Big thanks again to all the readers, and reviewers! You guys make it worth it! Thanks!

Chapter Twenty-Four

(Fin's POV)

My back slams down onto hard packed earth. The heads and shoulders I landed on first; hands that grabbed me as I fell are probably the only reason I didn't just break something.

I try to cough but there doesn't seem to be any air left in my lungs to expel leaving me to simply twitch and jerk sporadically for a few moments wondering if maybe I can pass out now. I don't; I just lay there in a sea of legs trying to get air into my lungs. Not having much success for what seems like hours.

I roll onto my side, stuttering and gasping, curl up and cover my head for a moment hoping not to get stepped on by the shuffling mass around me. This is about as smart as laying down on the floor of a mosh pit. I need to get up before I get trampled…

I push up onto my knees, finally get in an almost normal breath and immediately regret it…

I don't think there are words invented yet to describe the assault taking place on my senses.

Have you ever driven past a road kill skunk with your windows down on a hot summer day? Yes?

Okay, how about found something unidentifiable in the very back of your fridge, made the curious mistake of opening it even though you can't remember how long it's been back there; can clearly see it's gone rotten with mold…

Combine those two things together and then multiply that by a factor of 1,000 and you're still not even close to grasping the unique bouquet of my current companions.

If people had figured out how to bottle this years ago it would probably have repelled stray cats and cockroaches… Hell it could have been used to end wars. It's That Bad.

I gag, retch, dry heaving till my eyes tear and my nose runs uncontrollably.

If I stay here I might never recover. I start to crawl, hand over hand away from the house retching every few feet while trying to take only the smallest gasping breaths when my lungs start to burn too much to resist.

My neck is starting to throb with each move of my right arm, I pause to raise my fingers find a circle of wet, raw skin that makes me jerk my hand away instantly with a sharp hiss.

Ouch. Okay, Another mild complication.

Seems falling into a sea of walkers instead of plummeting 12 feet straight down might not be as handy as I originally thought. The Dead tend to act a little like piranhas when excited: they bite first and question whether they can actually eat what they've caught hold of after they sink their teeth in. Like overzealous land sharks. The one that bit me is probably flopping around on the ground right now somewhere behind me…

I don't even remember teeth tearing into me after the fall, but it happened pretty fast… Whoever bit me must have let go the second it realized I wasn't a wise choice for a snack.

Why couldn't it have been my leg? It's still covered with Kyle's blood… And I could hide that before anyone might see it…

At least it didn't happen right in front of someone this time…

I halt rocking back suddenly to kneel on the lawn. The frozen blades of grass soaking the rim of Daryl's shirt sleeves with dew. The realization slams into me.

It doesn't matter where I got bit:

They all saw me go off the roof into the horde…

I bury my head in my hands, let it wash over me.

There's no way anyone could survive that fall, especially with only a knife in their hand- a knife that I dropped rolling over the rough shingle roof…right along-side the first few layers of skin from my right hip and thigh…

I can't turn back up, pretend nothing happened.

Who would believe it?

So I'm dead.

That's it.

No more group, no more Carl or Rick, Beth or…or….

I can't even think it.

I take a deep breath. It's better this way.

I was an idiot to think it could ever end with anything but a disaster; should be grateful that it ended as well as it did.

A bitter laugh tears out of me.

It's a serious testament to just how fucked up my past relationships have been in three years that THIS is a good parting:

I'm naked, except for boots and a flannel shirt. I ache from head to toe, my insides throb and burn like I've been jabbed repeatedly with hot coals. I've been shot, cut, punched, bitten and thrown off a roof.

I lay my head against my knees for a second and breathe slowly in and out try to ignore the snarling at my back, the furious report of gunshots not 200 feet away and the bitter cold curling around every inch of skin.

I pull myself up, take a swipe at my watering eyes, cough and get to my feet. Slip quickly into the woods. Start circling the house through the trees till movement in the back field catches my eye. I immediately recognizes the posture even in the dark; the crossbow held aloft; Daryl…and the other two making their way across the cleared field, almost to the trees.

They lived.

It's the best outcome I guess I could really hope for.

My only original hope when I made the decision to go in there.

The fact that I'm alive too should be a victory lap…

But it doesn't feel like one.

Maybe when I don't hurt anymore…it will feel different.

I keep circling left past the old shed to where I left my pack, my bow. The cold air numbs my legs, I keep my hands tucked under my arms to protect my fingers-keep them useful as long as possible in the cold.

I pull off my boots gently once I'm standing over my bag again, try to ignore the way my muscles scream at me. Start to pull on my normal clothes, familiar olive pants, a dark tank top…my fingers pause over my usual long sleeves, my eyes on the flannel pattern I just removed.

I stuff my own shirt back into my bag pull the flannel back on instead, rolling the sleeves quickly past my elbows. Try not to analyze my own action.

It's not like anyone else will see it.

I finish with my boots and sliding my harness over my hips, trapping the long hem of his shirt against my waist; it's almost a dress in length on my shorter frame. I no longer have a machete to use, but it will keep the shirt bottom pinned down if anyone tries to grab it; and I'm used to its comforting weight against my hips.

My neck burns when the leather strap of my quiver brushes against it slipping over my head. But it could be much worse, whoever bit me at least opened their jaws again before yanking backwards; otherwise I'd have a much bigger hole to deal with, and a far more serious problem than being homeless again.

It would be really hard to finish kicking the Peacock's collective asses now that the others should be long gone if I was dizzy from blood loss. No way to deal with the horde that's writhing across the lawn in the dark.

I turn back towards the house, gun shots still pop off through the darkness. They have to know they can't stop them that way; there isn't enough ammunition in the whole house for a group that size…The sheer number moving around the front of the house is unimaginable.

The last time I saw a group that large was probably in Atlanta years ago. They must be from the main highway—which is a symptom of a larger possible problem; if this really is my fault, and I don't see how it could be anything but; anyone leaving the house from the other direction may encounter the same kind of force moving in from the opposite side.

I will need to hurry here so I can follow them, make sure they make it to the road safely without running into any extra's I didn't intend to have showing up to the party.

I sigh, beyond tired and suddenly very cold.

I ignore the ache and burn of muscles as I move toward the house again; circle back around to face the front of the house and the commotion happening there. I leave the safety of the tree line; move forward to the fence zigzagging the perimeter of the property.

It's taller than I am, but the spaces between the thick limbs it's constructed from are wide enough to get my toes into, I pull and climb up onto the top, my shoulders and insides screaming in protest.

It takes me a second or two to place my feet at the right angle to give me the stability to stand upright. I need to get a clear view of the porch roof; the windows beyond and the Peacocks still firing recklessly into the crowd.

I pull two arrows from over my shoulder, clasp one between my teeth, nock the second. I take several slow deep breaths; pick my target in the dark pull back and fire. I nock the second arrow immediately and let it follow the first then quickly drop to the other side of the fence rolling to lessen the impact.

It's still jars my teeth and makes me hiss with pain, but I'm down before the answering fire of bullets echo through the trees in my direction. They might not know exactly where that came from; but they'll be no doubt it was me. Luckily nothing seems to actually be hitting the wooden fence line I'm behind. They must think I'm farther back in the trees.

Which is ridiculous: nobody could make that shot from the forest.

I move left again, crouching to sprint between a gap in the fence a good 50 feet wide, the wood here is exploded inward, more splintered fire tinder then wooden rail. It's both impressive and terrible what that many of them can do in one place.

My leg gives out shaking in agony when I reach the other side of the gap slamming me to the ground. I drop my hand to my thigh, it comes away wet, my fingers black in the moonlight… must be bleeding again. Probably popped the stitches loose when I jumped; or maybe when I fell the first time.

It's no use worrying about it now; If I don't deal with the rest of the Peacocks and stop this herd of walkers the others won't make it through the night. I concentrate on my breathing, grab two more arrows. Turn to peer through the gap in the fencing.

Mark is trying to get Billy back through the window and off the porch, one of my arrows sticking out of his thigh like an odd extra limb. Robert, it looks like, is trying to pull Billy inside by one arm while he screams, flailing uselessly; driving the crowd below them into a frenzy.

The wooden porch railing on the deck snaps with a loud crack, glass shatters. They'll be in the house soon. I move across the yard, elbow over my nose and mouth; breathing through the thick soft flannel to try to block the overwhelming odor of fetid death and rot from knocking me on my ass. Surprised that I can smell his scent in the thick cotton still, even with the other scents surrounding me…I close my eyes for a moment, take it in deeper; try to memorize it before it's gone.

I start to move again, eyes lifted to the porch roof. If I could just lure them to the edge I'd have a perfect shot…

I pull an arrow out, nock it and take loose aim at the space above the porch. It's been a long time since I've tried this…and never with a group so large, I'm not sure I have the strength…

Slowly one by one the Dead around me quiet, go still; it spreads out from me in an ever widening circle. I still don't know how. It's like staring at one of those stupid 3D artworks, the second you concentrate too hard; start to focus it slips away…

"The Hell is going on?!"

"No! Don't!" I fire taking Ken down before his brother can jerk him back from the edge, his grip on his brother's arm takes them both down and I instantly lose control; the crowd swallows them whole. Their screams bounce off the walls of the house amplified; echoing into the darkness with the renewed snarls of the dead; the shouts from the rooftop drowned out, lost in the night.

I duck quickly, move as fast as I can to the front porch, before whoever is left on the roof can spot me, I'd be an easy shot at this range. Several more gunshots split the night behind me, I hear the wood of the porch beams creak loudly…too many bodies pressed against rotten wood.

I have to shove several of them aside so I can crawl through one of the smashed windows to the front room, slicing one palm on the glass. I nock another arrow, notice my bloody fingerprints on the shaft as I straighten up, how much blood have I lost tonight? I need to stop soon or I'll be in serious trouble. I move towards the bottom of the stairs pause when the crack of wood and groan of too much weight take the porch roof down, I think I hear more screaming over the sound.

I wait at the bottom of the stairs; whoever is left up there will surely be headed this way now, trying to make their escape from the house, out the back like Daryl and the others.

I take him down before he's reached the first step; the second his head is in view…he falls back and I'm moving up to the second floor landing, grabbing the rifle from his hand, checking for ammunition…then staring down the empty hallway…I wait but no one else leaves the room.

I move as quietly as I can, curse the single board that creaks under my toe. Lay my back flat to the wall, breathing fast, Spin to check the room and find it empty…Billy is on the floor, my second arrow sticking out of his chest. When he gets up he won't be a threat to me anymore.

I leave the room, head back downstairs to the kitchen; the medical supplies they used on me early in the evening should still be there. I need to stop my leg from bleeding again before I pass out.

I enter the kitchen and stop cold.

That explains why I didn't see him upstairs. He's propped against the cabinets, blood soaked dish rag held to one side of his neck; I'm certain he's dead until I hear him breath, he raises his head sees me, one side of his mouth quirks up. Though why the hell he'd be smiling at me I have no idea.

"Seraphim…"

He's got no weapons, can barely speak but I still move carefully when I step forward crouch down a few feet in front of him, he glances at the distance between us mouth quirks up again.

"David." I watch his labored breathing.

"I'm sorry." That I did not expect.

"For what exactly?" So many things to apologize for, terrible things words can hardly undo…

"Everything," he closes his eyes. "I'm sorry" He pauses to breath, face drawn, pale and tight, "…that I found you that day, that I brought you here…"

"Because I killed your whole family." That makes sense, regret for ever knowing me. I can understand that.

He shakes his head once. Opens his eyes again to stare at me.

"No…I… I knew what they were doing was wrong…and I didn't stop them… They're my family…" his eyes cut through me.

"Living like this, you were right; it's not life. When Caleb…and…and Robert started to follow you; I should have taken you away from here. I knew what they were capable of, but I lied to myself, they're my family, but I should have chosen you."

I just stare at him. My hands shake in my lap.

"I wasn't yours to choose."

It wasn't like that, wasn't even a thought for me back then…

I'd been broken and lost when he'd found me still hog tied naked and drenched in blood covered in entrails and bile in the woods; half mad with dehydration and hysteria. Surrounded by the dead…

He probably should have shot me the second he found me.

"You came back, to save those people…after everything, all this time…"

I am not crying I tell myself. "I came back to kill them."

He lets out a breath, "I know," his inhale is more wheeze then breath.

"Does he know?"

My head jerks.

God no, I can never tell him; watch him reject me fear me just like Caleb and Mark, even Abby and my own mother…

"Tell them."

"I can't. Everyone hates me."

"He won't hate you Serap…"

"How can you say that?! Look at me! Why Me? I didn't ask for this…" my voice crumbles. I don't want this… what good is life when it means you'll always be alone…

"Seraph…he won't hate you… I don't."

How can he not? Everyone I've ever met has turned against me, abandoned me or worse…

We stare at each other across the room till his eyes slip shut and he doesn't breath again.

So many sins to confess, so much to let go of…and now it's too late.

I get up have to use the edge of the counter to get my legs under me again. Find the bottle of alcohol and gauze packs next to several blood soaked rags near the sink. I have to step over his mother's body to grab them, find myself staring at the arrow protruding from her for a moment before moving to one of the chairs.

I pour what I can stand onto my neck, palm and the few other particularly nasty cuts I've collected. Breathing so fast my head starts to spin.

I wrap what I can to try with what's left to keep them clean focusing on the most exposed; my palm and the worst injury which seems to still be my leg where I did in fact ruin some of the stitches holding me together. There are still two good ones, I pull the other two from my skin with a grunt, grinding my teeth. My hands shake as I re-apply the bandage around my thigh, wrapping it as tight as I can stand, trying to hold pressure over the two stitches still intact. I'll remove it in a bit, don't want to effect the circulation in my leg…but I need to stop the bleeding. That's more important right now; especially when I can't stop…not tonight.

I lay my head against the hard wood for a moment breathing while the room spins, remind myself that I have to keep moving: I can pass out from exhaustion and pain some other time when it's more convenient.

I start to laugh, but it hurts too much.

I haul myself up, refasten my pants and belts and retrieve the shotgun from the kitchen cabinet, gather the few arrows in the kitchen, not my brand….maybe I can leave them for him to find, he might need them.

I exit the house out the back door; the front now completely blocked with the collapsed porch. Most of the dead are still pressed against the front; but a few have started to wander around, can't have that.

At least this part will be easy.