Hi guys, excuse me for the more than long wait for this chapter. I had a little bit of writer's block, then of course exams at university and there's been another story I absolutely had to write in one go. Said story is a crossover with Battlestar Galactica, if you want to check it out.
Plus, I find it really hard to live up to the standards the Walking Dead tv series set. Every episode features this special mix of depressing, frightening and threatening undertone/basic mood. For me, I's not easy to keep this mood up and still fit the different characters of Stargate into it. For example, Jack O'Neill is a completely different character than Rick Grimes and Sam Carter is nothing like Lori Grimes and of course, they deal with this apocalypse differently than the characters we know from Walking Dead. So it's not easy to integrate O'Neill's sarcastic jokes and still maintain the dark mood. Because of that, I sometimes have to think a long time before I can decide which words to use and this is a big reason why I can't accomplish to write a new chapter every week.
Hope you still bear with this story.
Chapter 10: Walker shopping for beginners
The next morning, she was awakened by the bright rays of the sun. At first, it was hard to orientate herself. It took a few moments until she realized that she was no longer stuck in the damn bunker. For that reason alone, this had to be the best morning for some time. Actually, since this whole nightmare started. Before she fully opened her eyes, Sam took in the smells and sounds around her.
It must've rained somewhere last night. The air smelled moist and clean and smoky. Petrichor, this particular smell was called. The smell of rain on dry ground. Blinking, she opened her eyes. The first morning of the rest of her life, as the saying goes. Still in that cozy stadium of half sleep, she watched her new acquaintance's morning rituals.
She saw Tony balancing a large pot on one arm and some cans on the other. Daniel, who almost fell out of his tent. His hair stood up in all directions as he waved at her in greeting. Then he tripped over a piece of wood lying around, picked himself up again and walked over to the big green army tent as if nothing had happened. Louise Astor was standing with her hands on her hips and a grumpy face next to her tent and was busily irritating Kowalski. The dark haired soldier rolled his eyes but still nodded. The blond policemen and his fiancée were on their feet, too.
It seemed that everyone was already awake and made oneself useful. All of them, except her. Sam startled awake when she realized that she was the only one still in bed. And that on her first day in the new group. Not exactly a good way to prove her usefulness. But that was probably because she'd been awake well into the night yesterday. Together with the unspeakably not charming Jack O'Neill.
Contrary to her claim to be not tired, she'd still fallen asleep sometime. Her legs were stretched in front of her and her upper body leaning against the tree trunk behind her. Certainly not the most relaxing sleep of her life. She could feel her muscles protesting already. But at least she wasn't cold. Even in mid summer, the nights in Colorado Springs could get cold. She resisted the impulse to snuggle deeper into the blanked that was wrapped around her shoulders.
The fabric was sturdy, but comfortably soft too. Like one of those cotton shirts which acquired that special softness after repeatedly wearing and washing it. Instinctively, she buried her nose in the blanket. The smell was a mix of sweat, soil, smoke and…was that gunpowder?
Compared to the oily-musty smell of the bunker or the rotting bodies, the blanket felt almost homely. Like the embrace of an old friend. The only thing that annoyed her was this sharp piece of metal poking her shoulder. She fingered it. It was sharp and somehow ragged. She pulled until it came off from the blanket.
Sam rubbed the last sleep from her eyes and studied the oddly shaped metal in her palm. It was a bird, a silver eagle, to be exact. And the blanket was not a blanket, but a dark green BDU jacket. She rolled her eyes when she realized what she had in front of her. This was certainly the same jacket O'Neill had offered her the night before in a rare soupcon of manners. Sam had refused because she didn't want to seem needy. When she'd still fallen asleep, he'd probably taken the liberties to tuck her in. It was a nice gesture, but she didn't know what to make of it or of him.
The man hadn't made a very good impression yesterday. Rather than that, he'd acted like a cocky choleric. She was reluctant to change her first impression of him due to one nice gesture. That had always been one of her biggest problems. She was just too trusting. He father would call it naivety and she reluctantly had to admit that he was right.
Too often, had she been ready to ignore or forgive the shortcomings of the men around her. Because she wanted to believe that there was something good in everyone and she could find it, if she mustered enough patience. As a natural result, she was rewarded for her good nature with being used repeatedly. But this shouldn't happen again. Not here and not in the midst of this nightmare. It was too dangerous. After all, she knew no one of these people. With the exception of Janet of course. And it felt like she knew Cassie pretty good too, after all, Janet had told her a ton of stories about her adopted daughter. But still, there were too many uncertainties, too many unknown variables in her formula. Sam had to learn to trust herself first, be careful around the others and meticulously choose the ones she could trust. And above all those things, she had to make clear in the first minute that she wouldn't be wrapped around one's little finger. She couldn't show weakness. If she offered no weak spots, she was less likely to be attacked.
It was best if she started right now. There had to be something she could help with. Maybe Tony could use some help cooking breakfast? She scrambled to her feet and brushed soot and dirt from her clothes. The provisional blanket fell on the ground and she bent down to pick it up again. Because there was a big smear of grime on it and she refused to give it back dirty, she tried to clean it first. Her hand brushed over the bright spot on the fabric where the silver eagle had been fixed and attached the insignia again. Doing this, she became aware of something.
This was O'Neill's BDU jacket, his name tag was attached over the right breast pocket. So, that was O'Neill's insignia too. A silver eagle. He was a colonel. Oh no! Frustrated because her mind chose this morning to be slower that usual, she wiped a hand across her face. O'Neill was the colonel everyone had spoken about. Sam had actually assumed that it was some kind of nickname. The stress of the last 24 hours had probably misled her to the wrong conclusion. Jack O'Neill was a colonel, a real one.
Thus, the man was the highest ranking officer at the camp and she as a member of the armed forces his subordinate. She suppressed the reflex to moan in annoyance. If she'd realized this earlier, she would've behaved a little more civil. Granted, O'Neill had irritated her. But normally, she was able to restrain her aversion and act respectfully towards higher ranking officers. But what was normal these days?
Worse, however, was that she had not only disgraced herself. She had also inadvertently confirmed all the stereotypes that existed about women in the armed forces. Namely, that women were much more emotional than their male counterparts and therefore not able to remain objective in stressful situations. That they were not only physically weaker, but also mentally.
Now, there was just one thing to do if she wanted to revise this picture of herself. She had to apologize immediately. Even if she didn't like the idea to eat humble pie in front of O'Neill. But he was her commanding officer and thus she was obliged to respect him. She didn't want to give him an opportunity to accuse her of disobedience.
With a sigh, she threw the jacket over her right shoulder and went in search of the colonel. Sam wanted it done before breakfast. She didn't want to imagine the humiliation if she had to say sorry with the others as witnesses.
She met Tony in her search. He dragged a pot full of slimy beans towards the smoldering campfire. She nodded at him and walked on. Following a hunch, she finally found the colonel in the bathing area. It turned out that the strange construct of branches and plastic sheeting housed two camping showers.
O'Neill stood in front of one of the showers, thank god, fully clothed. He was busy brushing his teeth thoroughly. When she thought about the lack of a own toothbrush, Sam put her hand over her mouth to test her breath. It she had to apologize, then surely not with bad breath.
He hadn't noticed her and she waited patiently until he spat out a barrage of foamy water and wiped his face with a small towel. He combed his fingers though his hair but couldn't do much against the wild strands. Sam took the jacket between her hands and cleared her throat carefully. Surprised by her presence, O'Neill whirled around and instinctively reached for the gun in his drop leg holster. Always on the watch, thought Sam. He relaxed again as he recognized her and raised his eyebrows in question.
"Sir, here is your jacket." She answered his silent question and practically threw the garment at him. O'Neill fished it out of the air without taking his eyes from her. His gaze was difficult to interpret.
"Okay. Thanks." He replied, but said nothing further.
Both stood across from each other with a tense silence between them. Jack eyed her closely and noticed that she was biting her lip. It seemed to him that there was something else on her mind, but she didn't know how to say it. And her posture was tense. If he didn't know better, he'd say she was standing at attention.
"Is there something else?" he finally asked when she continued staring indecisively at him.
Carter took a deep breath and closed her eyes while the words tumbled out of her.
"Yes, Colonel O'Neill, Sir. I want to apologize for my disrespectful and childish behavior. You are my CO and I had no right to talk to you like that. Sir, I promise that I will act according to my rank in the future. Again, I'm very sorry, Sir."
O'Neill was stunned. He thought he'd misheard when the first 'Sir' came from her lips. This submissive tone didn't fit the rebellious nature she'd hinted at the campfire. Last night, she'd left the impression of a woman who knew what she wanted and who didn't take shit from anybody and honestly, he didn't like the change in her behavior. Of course, he'd been annoyed with her and Fraiser yesterday. But the whole day had been crappy and the best part had been the dispute with Carter, because she'd presented the perfect catalyst for his pent-up frustration.
She hadn't yielded or sulked when he verbally attacked her, she had stepped up and hit back. And, he liked that. He liked a good fight once in a while. As much as Jack admired people who possessed an own opinion and own will, he despised suck-ups even more. So far, he'd actually thought that the both of them could get along well, despite their bad start yesterday. If she was going to continue with this submissive respect, he was probably forced to rethink his assumption. But as he eyed her up, he found something that gave him hope to see feisty Carter again. Jack could practically read in her face how hard that excuse was for her. He decided to test her and see how hard set she was on bootlicking.
"Sir? Colonel? Superior officer? Whatever happened to snotty Carter?" he demanded to know when exactly she'd lost her spine between last night and this morning. But his words apparently didn't reach her with it's intended meaning.
"As is said, Sir, I had not realized that your are my CO. I can only apologize and hope that you'll give me a second chance. I won't question you again." She stared over his right shoulder, avoiding eye contact, trying to justify something that wasn't worth worrying about in the first place, by Jack's standards. They'd both been hungry, tired and exhausted. They'd used each other to blow off some steam and that's it. No hard feelings, at least from his side.
"And what if I don't want that?" He replied quickly, throwing her off balance.
"Sir?" Her confusion manifested itself in subtle wrinkles around her eyes.
Jack threw his jacket over a branch and shoved his hands deep into his pant pockets. She'd understood him completely wrong. Carter probably thought of him as a damned fusspot.
"Listen Carter, you don't have to Sir or Colonel me. If you really want to, fine by me. But O'Neill is good enough. For all I care, we don't have to play this superior-subordinate-number."
"I'm a little confused Colonel, what exactly do you want from me?"
Jack sighed and ran a hand trough his tangled hair.
"That's the problem. I don't want to demand something from you you're not willing to give."
The small wrinkles around her eyes morphed into a full blown cluelessness.
"I'm sorry, but you've lost me."
"What I mean is," he started and made a sweeping gesture around the campground, "we're not just a group sharing the same space. We're a team and everyone does what he or she can do. That's the only thing I ask for. And another point, I don't play well with ass kissers and put-on authority, okay? So please, for crying out loud, don't act like a submissive sissy."
Carter stared at him like he was some sort of incarnated puzzle.
"But you are my boss."
"Am I?"
"Yes, of course." She repeated in a doubtful tone, as if she was not so sure if this was a trap.
"That's just words, titles and ranks. I mean, look around. We've got no clue if the military structures still exist. Heck, we don't know if anyone but us is still alive. I see no reason why you should be forced to salute me. I don't need that and I don't want it."
She still appeared thoughtful, not really convinced of his argument, or of his sincerity.
"It's not as if I could sanction you. What am I supposed to do if you refuse to salute, spank your butt?"
It was meant as a rhetorical question, but she reacted subconsciously to it by defiantly crossing her arms over her chest. Her facial expression clearly said 'I'll rip you a new one, if you try'. There it was again, this rebelliousness, this strong-willed stubbornness. Carter may not see it, but O'Neill was sure that those two character traits would be more useful to her in the chaos surrounding them than blind obedience.
"Besides, it's enough for me that Quinn insists on calling me Sir. I feel like an old crock every time he does. Don't do that to me too, okay?"
He tried to undergird his half-sincere request with the most charming expression he could muster. At least she relaxed, even if only slightly.
"But Kowalski and Hanson call you Sir?"
Jack waved her words off quickly.
"That's something completely different. Kowalski and I have been buddies for ages. The Sir is more like a nickname. And Hanson is part of our unit. It's different for them."
He pointed at the entire camp.
"This is not a barrack and I'm no dictator. You can call me whatever you want, although I'd prefer O'Neill or Jack."
Sam had to smile as she imagined which other names she could call him. Apparently, he was very well aware at the most frustrating feelings he evoke in others.
"Roger that. No Sir or Colonel." She agreed finally. Although Sam was not used to not giving a superior the obligatory respect inform of a honorific, but he was right there. There really was no reason to stubbornly cling to a pecking order if they all felt better using a more casual tone. The military jurisdiction probably no longer existed and they could treat each other with respect without using ranks. It was most likely anyway more reasonable to get to know each other without the limits of their respective ranks.
"Sooo….."he began again and scratched his head coyly before he held out his hand to her, like a copy from his gesture the night before.
"I call you Carter, you call me O'Neill? Deal?"
She could live with that. It was more comfortable not to be forced to show him respect that she maybe didn't even felt towards him. Still, she was not sure if she wanted to open up to these people. They were like companions in fate, not individuals who had agreed to team up.
"Deal." She finally agreed to his offer. He shook her hand in return. It was a firm handshake, she noticed, not too tight, but still energetic and powerful.
"Sweet." He commented, stunning her with his next words.
"Well, I'll go and leave you alone in our little wellness temple. You should hurry up if you want any breakfast, though. Departure is in 30 minutes. Too bad for you, but I'm afraid you'll miss the masseur today."
She stared after him as he walked away, trying to understand the meaning behind his words. Was he sending her away after all?
"Departure? Where to?"
He turned around and continued walking backwards. Hands buried in his pockets and a mysterious smile on the face.
"Getting you a tent. We'll try our luck at a shop selling camping gear in Anderson Creek today. I thought you might want to come along. If you feel well rested, that is."
She understood his hint at her falling asleep at the campfire after arguing that she wasn't tired, but refused to react to it.
"I'm ready, no problem." She answered with resolutely that was only half real.
Sam wasn't sure how she felt about leaving the relative safety of the camp so soon after barely surviving the city yesterday. She'd never been to Anderson Creek, but still knew that it was a small suburb outside Colorado Springs specialized in providing fans of hiking and other outdoors sports with suitable equipment. But the smaller size of the village was no guarantee for more safety. On the other hand, it was beyond question, that she wouldn't sit back at the campfire while others risked their lives to find her a sleeping back.
Sam decided not to drive herself crazy. O'Neill didn't appear to be overly frightened at the thought of leaving the camp. Moreover, it was not his first trip. These people had survived like this for a month now, so they had to have at least a good tactic. Anderson Creek was probably just as dangerous as any other place right now.
"30 minutes." Admonished O'Neill again and his grin grew wider, when he heard her answer.
"I'll be ready in 20."
Almost exactly 20 minutes later, Sam noticed that today's 'task force' consisted of the same members than last time. Plus her, of course. This time, it seemed that they would take the big green military truck. A sign that O'Neill and the others didn't plan to return empty handed. When she met the men on the improvised parking lot, Hanson and Quinn were already busy loading all kinds of bags and a huge bolt cutter into the truck.
O'Neill stood next to the passenger side, listening to Janet as she explained him the contend of a list he held in his hand. Sam could imagine what it was about. Fraiser hat immediately taken over the job as camp doctor and checked their medicine supply this morning. To make it short, she hadn't been pleased when Harriman showed her the pathetic contents of a small bag. In her professional opinion, it was a miracle that none of the campers had died of an ingrown toenail by now. They didn't even have something to disinfect small wounds. Said list was likely her attempt to show O'Neill that it was important to eliminate this flaw quickly.
O'Neill held the list in his hand and looked at Janet as if he feared that she might explode at any moment. In fact, the small doctor had talked herself in quite a rage. She alternated between explaining him what kinds of drugs they urgently needed and almost ripping his head of verbally. When he tried to at least escape her admonitory voice with his eyes, he noticed Carter standing a few feet away and waved her over hopefully.
"Hey doc, look who's here. Why don't you show Carter everything we need? I don't understand half of your list anyway. Ya know, those long words confuse me." He suggested, grabbing Carter at her elbow and pulling her towards them. He then made a quick escape and called over his shoulder, "In the meantime, I'll do what I'm really good at. Confusing Daniel."
The two women watched his retreating form and Sam discovered that Janet wore the same doubting look, that appeared on her own face every time she had to deal with O'Neill. Yesterday, she'd been sure that he was just one of those domineering machos, today he behaved like the class clown. Sam didn't know what to make of the man and certainly not, if she could trust him.
They drove to Anderson Creek in the military truck. Again, Hanson sat behind the big wheel, O'Neill occupied the passenger seat while Sam and Quinn sat in the cargo area.
Anderson Creek was a small village between Colorado Springs and the near nature reserve. Over the years, the village had developed a reputation as a port of call for adventurous outdoor jocks. Everyone who planned to spend some days or even weeks in the woods went there to buy rations or replacements for equipment forgotten at home. The village lay a little off the highway and possessed only one main road. Like a string of pearls, all buildings lined up along his road. There was a diner, a pharmacy, a liquor store and a big store for all sorts of camping equipment. Noting else, the remoteness of the forests began here.
Hanson parked the truck on the customer parking lot and remained seated, while O'Neill and Quinn got out. Sam didn't know if there was some kind of plan or routine, so she climbed out of the truck with Quinn.
Anderson Creek was as extinct and desolated than the city center. Like a ghost village. It looked as if the inhabitants had left their homes in a mad rush but could return anytime. O'Neill and Quinn rummaged in a large black sports back and she took a few steps to prepare herself for what lay before her.
A light breeze ruffled trough the hair and blew a faded newspaper page past her. Sam moved quickly and fixed the flapping paper by stepping on it. Then she bent down and looked at the article. It was from a six week old sports magazine. As her eyes scanned the contents, it felt like a journey trough time. A unnamed journalist argued about the chances of the national soccer team in the World Cup in South Africa. Who cared? It was just sports. Not until one was faced with the end of the own civilization, was it perceptible how many problems of daily life were not problems at all, but situations that had been unnecessarily complicated. Six weeks ago, by the time someone had bought this magazine, life had been so simple. At least for most people. Getting up at 7 o'clock. Newspaper and breakfast. Working 9 to 5. Dinner. Two or three hours of downtime. A quickie before bedtime. Then, after 8 hours of healthy sleep the rhythm began anew. Her own life had been monotonous and a bit boring, but at least safe and reliable. Sam missed it.
Before the outbreak she'd been, if she was honest with herself, anything but satisfied with her choices in life so far. But who could say that he or she was absolutely at peace with the world and oneself? Probably no one. How she longed to get back that boredom. Knowing exactly how the day would end by the time she got up in the morning. Sam had always interpreted this as daily monotony and grind. But now she knew better. In actual fact, it was luxury. Another breeze tugged at the paper in her hand and she let go. It flapped in the wind and landed in a puddle of dirty water a few feet away.
"Hey, Carter!" she heard O'Neill call to her, yanking her away from her depressive musings. She turned around and saw him standing at the back of the truck, a large knife and a gun in his hands.
"Daydreaming?" he asked and his voice featured a certain lightness that she couldn't afford herself. Sam shook her head without a word and took the weapons he offered. While she attached the holster and gun to her right leg, she noticed that Quinn had a knife but no gun. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable wearing a one? She couldn't blame him. Knowing that you had the power to extinguish a life with the small movement of a finger was not easy to shoulder.
Still, she was grateful for the option to defend herself. The same dark sense of foreboding that she had felt in the city yesterday was creeping up on her. This underlying sense of a threat. It snuck up behind her and tried to overwhelm her senses. Sam felt observed and put it down to the fact that these things, these biters, could be literally everywhere. Maybe one of them was already lurking for her around the corner. If there was one thing that was certain in this new world, it was knowing that the undead were always close. Even if she couldn't see , hear or smell them. They were there and with them the certainty that she had to be ready at any time to fight for her life.
"Okay guys, that's the plan." Began the colonel and said it loud enough for Hanson to hear through the opened driver's seat window.
"Our priority is food, water filters, ammunition, drugs and bandages, batteries and clothing. In this order, but if anyone finds anything else useful, we'll take that as well. Jonas and Hanson, you'll look for anything we can eat or drink. Carter and I will take care of the rest. Any questions? No? Great, let's go!"
Sam looked at the great display window of the camping shop and wondered what her comrades were hoping to find here. There was not light, but you could clearly see the degree of absolute devastation. The business must have been looted a few times already. The shelves were overturned. Different kinds of liquids covered the floor. Bullet holes in the façade accurately running from left to right in a half moon. How could they find anything useful in this camping shop, turned battleground?
But O'Neill seemed to have a plan, so she swallowed her doubts and followed him. They walked to the backside of the shop while Hanson waited in the truck. Shortly, she asked herself why they didn't use the front entrance but the explanation came swift. She heard a muffled knock and turned her head. What her eyes saw, froze her body for a brief moment. At the space behind the windows, that had seemed abandoned a minute ago, a mob of angry biters had gathered. Maybe customers or employees who'd been locked up when the power blackout kept the automatic doors closed shut. The things braced themselves against the glass of the shop windows. Pressing their meaty faces against it and scraping their brittle fingernails across the smeared surface. Sam didn't want to imagine the smell inside, those biters were probably locked up for weeks now. But at least, as long as they were locked inside the shop, they didn't pose a direct threat.
"Carter! You comin'?" O'Neill called again and Sam felt stupid because he had to rip her out of her mental paralysis a second time. She raised her hand apologetically and caught up with the two men. The colonel let his group to the big green roll-up door of the delivery entrance. Obviously, the warehouse had been his intended target and not the destroyed and biter infested shop area. O'Neill checked the heavy padlocks on the door and whistled pleased before he gave a signal to Hanson.
"Still intact." He commented while Hanson drove the truck backwards toward them.
"We've been here two weeks ago, but couldn't crack the locks." Explained Jonas Quinn kindly.
"Yes, but today, we've got big mama with us." Added O'Neill with a wry grin. Sam knew that it wasn't a very good idea, but she gave in to her curiosity and asked anyway.
"Big Mama?"
"The bolt cutter. You know, the mother of all cutters."
Indeed, the gate looked like someone had tried to crack it open several times. Scratch marks on the green paint and on the chain links were a clear sign. But this time, the locks stood no chance. Hanson had parked the truck near them and shouldered the heavy bolt cutter. In teamwork, O'Neill and Hanson started to gradually crack the locks open. When the last links had lost it's fight, the colonel grabbed the door handle and looked at them questioningly.
"Everyone ready? Weapons up, we don't know what's behind."
When the rusty roller door finally opened, all four of them held their respective weapons up and stopped breathing. But nothing tried to bite them. It was dark inside, the only light source the narrow windows at the level of the top of the storage racks. When they were sure that no immediate surprise was waiting for them, they divided into two groups. Hanson and Quinn dragged an abundance of bags and backpacks with them and walked further into the storage area to the left. O'Neill and Sam started their exploration on the right.
They entered the first aisle and looked for everything on their list. The air was stuffy and dusty because the midsummer sun was heating up the place. The smell was stale and putrid, indicating that some of the food here had gone bad. Dust particles danced in the gloomy light. And it was quiet, except for the sound of their steps and Hanson or Quinn throwing canned food into a bag.
The noises were both, blessing and curse. Firstly, it was a relief to hear someone except yourself. Secondly, silence would only seduce her ears to make up for the lack of noise and hear things that weren't real. Her nerves were tense because it was impossible to shake of her experiences in the city. This awareness that literal death could lurk behind every shelf was hard to ignore.
O'Neill must've felt a similar tension. He held his gun with a fierce grip, his eyes thoroughly scanning their surroundings for everything. Sam noticed suddenly, that they both unconsciously oriented towards each other. Without realizing it, they'd taken up a posture which allowed them to cover each other's dead angle. They walked side by side, in the same pace, subconsciously protecting the other. The only sign that they hadn't done this many times before showed itself when they bumped their shoulders a few times.
Securing each other like that, they searched the racks for the things on their list. They came to a cardboard box full of first aid bags for cars or motorcycles. It wasn't ideal and Janet was probably used to better equipment, but it was better than nothing. O'Neill let the bag slide from his shoulders and packet almost the entire contents. Then he put the now full back on the floor and left it there. It was easier not to carry the full bags with them, instead leaving those behind and collecting them when they were finished.
It wasn't easy to keep an eye on everything in the sporadic and meager lit hall. Suddenly, Sam felt very unprepared for what was expected from her. What the hell was she doing? She literally was O'Neill's life insurance and as much as he confused her, she didn't want to be responsible for his death. But she had next to no clue what to do. Her last combat mission had been years ago and even then she'd just flown a plane and pressed a button to fire the missiles. She wasn't used to close combat. Wasn't used to this feeling of utter disorientation. Sam risked a glance to the man next to her. If he harbored similar doubts about her abilities, he hid them well. He scanned the racks with focused eyes, his body was tense but not knotted, he balanced the weight of his body on the balls of his feet, always ready to move quickly and efficiently if he had to. The whole man was the incarnated red alert. The way he moved showed her that he knew exactly what he was doing. So maybe she should just follow the advice he'd already shared with her.
Hear them before you see them. According to this recommendation, she focused all her concentration on her hearing. If her visual sense was limited due to sparse light, she would just rely on her ears. So she ignored the poor vision, tried to break free from the anxiety and focused on what she could hear and interpret.
She listened to quick, heavy footsteps. The grinding of fabric being dragged over the floor. The clank of metal falling on metal. Those noises belonged to Hanson and Quinn as they filled their bags with all kinds of canned food, dragging the full backpacks over the floor because they were too heavy to carry. Carter was so concentrated on searching for new sounds, that she didn't notice those who were missing. The reassuring steps beside her weren't there anymore, it's source vanished.
Stunned, she spun to the side and found herself alone in the dark corridor. Where, just now, O'Neill had covered her back, dust and darkness had taken over his place. He had vanished into thin air, together with his weapons and backpack. She squinted her eyes and tried to find the contours of his body in the dim light, but he was not there. Or at least, he was not near. Carter forced herself to push back the emerging concern.
"Colonel? O'Neill?" She whispered into the darkness, but received no answer.
She didn't know him well enough to know if it was time to seriously worry about him. Maybe it was typical for him to disappear like that? But that was not the impression she gained of him. Simply disappearing, leaving without a word didn't seem to be his style. That however, could only mean that something must have happened to him. Guild flared up in Sam, because hadn't noticed his absence earlier. She was far form saying that she liked him, but she didn't want to image what one of those biters could do to a human body.
If there was a walker on the loose, O'Neill was in danger and she had to help him. Immediately. For about a second, she debated whether it made sense to call Hanson and Quinn for help, but quickly decided against it. It was possible that the time she would need to find the two men, was exactly the time that made the difference between life and death. And she couldn't call out to them. The risk was too high that she would just startle other biters that possibly lurked in the dark. She fumbled at her belt and cursed under her breath, when it occurred to her that O'Neill had taken the radio. So she couldn't even use that.
No, there was no other choice. So many unknown factors that she had to take care of it herself.
Slowly, she crept through the corridors, hoping that he'd just taken a wrong turn. But she didn't expect that. After all, O'Neill was a colonel and those didn't get lost in a warehouse between canned ravioli and bunsen burners. She drew her gun and held it protectively in front of her, always ready to shoot anything that would jump her in the dark. Sam tried to act tactically clever while she scurried through the aisles, always mindful that she had one of the massive shelves in her back. Making sure, that nothing could sneak up on her from behind. Her eyes and ears attentive and her mind focused, she searched for anything suspicious. When she had covered about half of the path back the way they'd been coming from, she heard something.
There was rasping and a metallic clang. When it was joined by a strained breathing, Carter was convinced that there was indeed one of this biters somewhere and that it had got hold of O'Neill. The noise seemed to come from an aisle to her left, about five meters away. She took a few tentative steps towards the source and the noise only got louder.
She stopped near the aisle and listened. It wasn't easy to separate the sound of her loudly beating heard from the rattling. She was close now. The rasping and grunting became more intense. Whatever that was, it was lurking just a few feet away. Sam pressed her body flat against the front side of the rack and tried to peek in between two shelves, but she couldn't get a closer look. Before she ventured any further, she checked her gun. Then, taking a deep breath and counting to 10. And she hoped. Hoped that whatever she would find, wasn't the battered and bloody body of O'Neill.
With her weapon raised, Sam dived into the aisle, intending to make good use of her time advantage. Her eyes searched for the source of danger and the author of the telltale sounds. She couldn't see much. There was a metal box with grids, like a cage. A tall figure leaned on it, pulling with both hands at the bars. Bingo, she thought. There in front of her stood one of those beasts and it hadn't noticed her. Instinctively, she raised the gun and aimed at the head. Her finger tightened around the trigger. Her brain transmitting to her muscles that it was time to shoot.
She snapped out of her trance-like focus at the last moment.
There was something wrong with the figure's movements. They didn't fit with the experience she'd made with walkers so far. Far too fluently, too coordinated. Alerted by these observation, the finger around the trigger relaxed and she took the fraction of a second to look more closely.
It was a man. Coincidentally, about the same height and build like O'Neill. The same clothes, too. When Sam realized that it wasn't a hungry biter in front of her, but the missing colonel, she let out a low curse. Damn idiot! What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking at all? She'd almost shot him! If her mind would have worked a tad more slowly, she would have killed him. Asshole.
Hearing her angry breathing, he whirled around and drew his gun. For a second or two, they stood facing each other with terror in their eyes. Then they simultaneously realized that the other emanated no danger and put the weapons down, sighing with relief.
Sam couldn't help but curse again.
"I thought you were a biter. I almost shot you!" she scolded in an angry whisper.
O'Neill appeared to be far less upset about being almost killed and his terse shrug made her even angrier.
"One moment I hear you wheezing beside me, and the next minute you're just gone. Why the hell didn't you say something? I've been worried."
The roles were now reversed. It was her now, accusing him of frivolity. In response, he scratched his neck and muttered a quiet, but slightly guilty sounding "Sorry."
He looked like a schoolboy apologizing half-heartedly for smashing the hated neighbor's window with a baseball. Surprisingly, she noticed that her anger vanished. Something daring flashed in his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned into a grin.
"So, you've been worried…for me, eh?"
Carter rolled her eyes. "Think nothing of it. I've been mostly concerned for the radio."
"Yeah, sure. The radio. Would've been my second guess."
She put her gun back into the leg holster and fixed him with a stern glance. "Never, ever do that again."
This time, he managed a somewhat remorseful expression. He crossed his index and middle finger and pursed his lips.
"Promise. Scouts honor."
Sam snorted. "As if you've been a scout."
Shortly, he seemed genuinely appalled that she openly doubted his past as a scout. But an easy smile quickly replaced the expression.
"I was a scout. I swear….for about 30 minutes. Then they kicked me out again."
Sam closed her eyes and prepared herself for the silly story that was surely coming.
"Do I want to know why?"
O'Neill formed quotation marks with his fingers. "Apparently, I was hyperactive. But personally, I think I was just too cool for the uniform."
Sam shook her head and left this little anecdote uncommented.
"What did you want here anyway?" she asked instead.
A slightly shy expression crept into his face and he stepped around her so she could get a closer look at the cage behind him. She couldn't believe her eyes when she recognized it's contents. Hockey sticks. A series of colorful hockey sticks. Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief. That idiot! He'd slipped away, scaring the hell out of her and almost gotten himself killed through her hand because of a stupid hockey stick. A hockey stick, in the middle of august! What a infantile idiot!
"You can't be serious."
Sam knew the man about 24 hours, and already he was confusing the hell out of her. Bipolar would be an understatement. Sometimes he behaved like a tough and insensitive klutz. Then he was a bold tactician. Another time he was the class clown and now he looked more like a little boy than an adult man. While she was still trying to order the many conflicting impressions she'd gained from him, he stood coyly in front of her. Bobbing up and down on his heels, he looked alternately at her and the sports equipment. His mischievous eyes seemed to answer her question with 'What do you expect, I'm just a guy.'
She breathed loudly when he turned back to the hockey sticks. O'Neill seemed stubborn about it. If she interpreted his longing look right, then he really, really wanted one of those. She almost feared that he would throw himself on the ground and start kicking with his hands and feet. Sam chuckled quietly as she imagined this ridiculous picture.
Without planning or even wanting it, she earned her first points with the gruff colonel. She sighed in resignation and pushed him quite rudely out of the way as she pulled a clip out of her hair. Actually, the clip had kept her long, blonde hair in shape, but now it fell in golden strands on her shoulders. If Jack wouldn't have been so focused on the racket of his desire, he would've probably appreciated the sight. But the was much too busy watching the woman as she used the clasp to manipulate the casket's lock. He noticed how her clever fingers worked and suspected that she'd done more tinkering like that. Maybe, she wasn't a typical egghead. He began to wonder, where had she learned that. She didn't look like a professional safecracker, but one never knew. This was definitely an interesting facet, he thought.
With childish impatience, he hovered behind her and peered over her right shoulder to follow the progress. Sam refused to be distracted by this unaccustomed closeness. When the door of the box finally opened with a crack, Jack couldn't wait any longer. Eagerly, he grabbed the deep blue bat and weighed it gently in his hands and as if to test it's weight.
In the meantime, Sam used the clasp to pull her hair into a firm braid. Her fingers working as thoroughly as she had worked on the casket lock. She liked her hair, but couldn't stand it if the strands fell into her face while working. Fighting against biters was hard enough, she didn't want to fight her hair too. Sam eyed O'Neill as he tested the hockey stick, first swinging it like a golf club and then like a baseball bat. She felt her mouth twitching upward with the hint of a smile. When the bat had apparently passed aptitude check, O'Neill gave her a satisfied grin.
"Sweet thing, thanks. I always wanted a blue one."
With this silly comment, she lost all control of her facial features and couldn't any longer resist a full smile. Somehow, his childish joy was contagious. He grinned back knowingly, almost as if he knew exactly that she wanted to be strict but couldn't help herself being amused by his behavior. Shortly, the thought crossed her mind that he did that on purpose, just to break the ice between them. But she rejected this theory quickly because she was doing it again. Leaving behind all her doubt and caution for a somewhat charming smile.
"So, are you happy now? Can we go on?" she asked instead and waited for an answer while he tucked the racket between his back and the rucksack, now wearing it like a Samurai sword.
"For now." Was his multi layered reply.
Her eyes fell on the empty bag he had put in a corner and she was reminded of why they were really here. They hadn't collected everything on their list yet. In a way, it felt wrong. What they did was stealing, even if it was an emergency situation.
"That's what you understand by shopping. Stealing." She voiced her remorse, hoping that a little humor would make it easier. O'Neill didn't disappoint. He cocked his head thoughtfully to the side, but his eyes seemed to tease her.
"Actually, I think the right term is pillaging."
Sam sighed. He wasn't helping much. In her eyes, looting was ever worse than stealing. Looting. That always sounded like exploiting an emergency and enriching oneself. But actually, these were just merely semantics. She tried to persuade herself with the fact, that this nightmare didn't leave them with many other options.
"Oh great. I'm feeling better already." She commented and realized that irony had sneaked into her words. Oh god, he was rubbing off on her already.
O'Neill harbored less guilty feelings, which fit his rather pragmatic mind. They faced a really big problem and taking what they needed to survive was the only solution. For him, it was easy like that. He grabbed the empty bags, displaying a playful bow as he walked past her.
"Always at your service."
Shaking her head, half amused, half frustrated, she followed him.
They continued their search for useful supplies and Sam realized, that the seedy darkness of the warehouse seemed far less threatening with another pair of footsteps beside her. Maybe it was like watching a horror movie? Those were half as creepy when you watched it with someone else. Or perhaps it was just because in a world of the walking dead, it was good to have another living, breathing person with you. Knowing that you are not alone made it easier somehow.
"So…" She started with a whisper because Sam had decided that now was a good time as any other to get to know the man next to her a little better. Today he behaved much more compatible that yesterday and she wanted to find out if this was the limit of his kindness or if there were other hidden talents.
"…what other rules are there?"
O'Neill didn't bother to look at her as he peeked into a passage on their right side, but she could see the confusion in his face.
"Rules?"
While he made sure that there was nothing endangering them from their right, Sam did the same with a corridor to her left.
"You know. Your camp rules. Rule number one: Don't pee alone. You emphasizing the one indicates that there is at least a number two."
"Uhm…" began O'Neill and took a few seconds to think about it. Of course, these rules weren't written down, most of them not even discussed. And they were not rules per se, just a few behaviors that had come naturally to them. Simply because it was convenient and reduced the chance of ending up as biter dessert. But there was not a real control system. He was unaware of the fact that the night before, when he'd boastfully admonished her, he'd indicated something like this. However, he should have guessed that Carter was someone that had to weight his words and now that she asked for further rules, he didn't want to make a fool out of himself. After all, he had acted like the big shot. And now, he had to giver her something so she wouldn't think of him as a wind bag. So, his mind searched desperately for another rule. Preferably something that made sense.
"Well…" he raised an admonitory finger to give his words more substance. "…you should always have some kind of weapon ready." He finally managed and noticing at the same moment, how stupid that sounded. But it was already too late. Carter turned around and rolled her eyes in disbelief.
"Really? Wow, thanks for the hot tip. I'd never have guessed that myself." Her voice was slightly mocking as she watched him like someone would watch the biggest idiot one had ever seen. Apparently she had expected an advice with a little more content. Considering this, he had to do something quick or else he could flush his reputation down the drain. His eyes landed on the colorful paracord bracelets around his left wrist and a winning grin manifested itself in his face. He slid his pistol into the holster and undid the clasp of a blue one.
When he put it around her wrist, Jack noticed her baffled gaze with a pleased one of himself. At least he had managed to elicit a reaction out of her that was not exasperated annoyance.
"You should always have one of those at hand."
His explanation didn't seem to convince her. Carter eyed her new, not so chic, trinket with suspicion.
"And what is it good for?"
He didn't have to think twice about that. After all, he had daydreamed about this several times during the lonely nights at the campfire.
"For example, to tie Daniel to a tree."
"Why should we do that?"
That was a question only one could ask who hadn't spend much time with the archaeologist. Jack, however, knew the man for a whole month now and knew that if Daniel started one of his lectures, there was not much that could stop him. Of course, his wife Sherry had an intimate, therefore really efficient way to shut him up. But this was no option for Jack. He liked Daniel, but not in that way.
"Honestly, I've got no problem with the man himself." He reiterated when her saw her skeptical look. "Just with him as a scientist."
"Why?"
"Because he's got that annoying habit to think that everyone likes his stories about mouldy stones."
Sam shrugged, not seeing the problem. "So what. He's probably just passionate about his métier. I like that way better than objecting to everything." She gave him a meaningful look, but he choose not to notice.
"Says the woman who never had to suffer through his theory about how aliens built the pyramids."
Sam took the gun in her left hand and wiped the sweaty palm of her right on her pants, then repeated this movement with the other hand. It really was hot in here.
"Many renowned scientists at least assume that the Egyptians couldn't have build the pyramids alone. At least not with their knowledge, resources and tools."
O'Neill sighed, but his face remained expressionless.
"That's why I don't like scientists. This obsessive habit to question everything. There has to be an answer for everything, even if there is not question. And of course, everyone hast to accept the sovereignty of science. But sometimes, a horse is just a horse."
"I see no horse here."
"It's a metaphor. You know, Ockham's Razor."
Carter eyed the man next to her surprised. She wouldn't have guessed that he knew something about Ockham's Razor. She just couldn't figure him out. He was like a puzzle with a strange pluralism of tempers and roles. He was a strict leader, a laissez faire Colonel, a class clown and not to forget, a ten year old in the body of a grown man. And he played very single role like a master. But at the same time, Sam felt that all of that was only superficial. What was a mask, and what was real?
"Tada! Here we are, Carter. Your own little camping paradise. Take everything you need, it's on me."
His jovial exclamation pulled Sam out of her brooding. She rolled her eyes because no one of them would pay for anything of the stuff they took. And for her, it was not just semantics. No matter what O'Neill would say, they were stealing. And Sam had never stolen anything in her whole life. Carters didn't steal. When a Carter wanted something, then hard work and ambition was the price. But she knew that they had no choice now. Firstly, they had no money and secondly, there was no one who could collect or use it. It was really weird. Given the things one would do for money, it was somehow ironic that it was absolutely worthless in this new world.
With O'Neill at her side, she rounded a shelve with camping mats. Sam grabbed a silver one and put it right back, when the tall colonel shook his head vehemently. This was repeated two more times until she finally selected a mat that seemed to satisfy his strict standard for apocalypse-apt camping gear. Now, she needed a tent and a sleeping bag.
Meanwhile, Carter felt confident enough to go ahead. But when she entered the next aisle, she regretted this decision immediately. Not for the first time this day, was she glad that she wasn't alone. Before her lay a lifeless body. It was a man, wearing a shirt with the logo of the camping shop. An employee? His body was lying under a fallen over shelf. Hundreds of packages of chewing gum lay scattered around him. Perhaps he had tried to hide here during the outbreak? It would've been a logical idea. After all, there was enough food and water to sustain a single person for months. She wondered what had happened to him? Even more urgent was the question if he was really dead, or not?
Sam noticed only now that she was rooted to the spot and blocking the corridor when she felt a gentle, but firm hand on her shoulder. O'Neill pushed her aside and slipped past her in the corridor. He used the hockey stick to poke at the lifeless body. Both instinctively backed away when the dead man moved. His head snapped up, the milky eyes wide open and hissing and drooling as he started dragging himself across the floor towards them. The impulse to eat too strong to resist.
"What a mess." Commented O'Neill and put his hand over nose and mouth while Sam realized at the same time why the figure crept, instead of trying to stand and walk on wobbly legs like his counterparts. The sharp edge of the shelf must have separated the legs from the body right below the kneecap when falling over. While the man's ashen body laboriously moved towards them, his feet remained behind, still stuck in the shoes.
As she watched with a perverse fascination the movements of the biter, she felt O'Neill's piercing gaze on her face. She lifted her head and met his dark eyes. He seemed to size her up and all of a sudden she realized what he expected from her now. Sam narrowed her eyes and bit her lip as she waited for him say something and confirm her suspicion.
"That one is yours." She heard him finally say. He got straight to the point, without detours and euphemisms. Given their situation, it seemed appropriate that way.
Secretly, Carter had known that it would come to this. It had been clear to see for her that this 'shopping trip' had never been just a simple errand tour. He wanted to test her. To find out, what he could expect of her and whether she was ready to defend their group. If she could take care of herself, or if she was just someone else he had to worry about.
But she would master his test, although something in her still struggled against what she had to do.
"You okay with that?" He asked, offering her an out. Sam didn't take it, instead nodding wordlessly and never turning her eyes away from the grotesque body in front of her. Since that disastrous experience in the city, she was aware of the fact that life as she had known it was over. This new world was cruel and merciless and if she wanted to survive, she had to kill. Her organism responded to this certainty, accelerating her pulse until her temples throbbed almost painfully.
Carter had killed before. Throughout training in the Air Force, she'd been prepared to kill when she had to. Taking someone's life without thinking. Doubts were allowed, but only afterwards. She had learned to perfection, how to kill in many ways. By shooting a highly accelerated projectile in the flesh of another human being. How to cut delicate veins with a sharp knife. Which body parts were extremely sensitive for punches or kicks. The culmination of said training had been her flight instruction. Hundreds of hours in a flight simulator, practicing how to steer, aim and pull the trigger. Aiming and shooting, aiming and shooting, aiming and shooting. That was everything she had to do while sitting in a cockpit, the aircraft took care of the rest.
During her time in Afghanistan, she'd felt strangely encapsulated. Almost as if aircraft and pilot were separated from each other. Two independent entities which used each other as mere tools to serve a higher purpose. Killing in the name of your country. But this, this moment right here was different.
Although Sam had learned how to kill with a knife, fortunately she never had been in a situation to use this knowledge. Also, she'd never killed someone in close combat. She was the one that pushed the button of the launch facility. Always flying above the battlefield and far away from her targets and victims. Like an angel of death, but at the same time oddly distanced from it all. But now, she was so very close. Not only did she see the biter in front of her, but she also heard, smelled and felt it's presence. And she felt O'Neill' eyes, his doubt increasing with every minute that she remained rooted to the spot instead of acting.
Come on, just do it already! –her mind screamed. She just had to tell herself that the man was dead already and had been for some time now. He was not a human being anymore. No feelings, no awareness, no senses but the blatant lust for meat. With ending this miserable existence, she would help him. Carter would prefer a bullet in the head too, instead of tottering helplessly around and hunting people.
She lifted her arm. In her hand, the gun rested like an extension of her body, of her will to survive. Aiming and shooting. So simple, yet something that no one should be forced to do. She held her breath and bent her fingers. Just as she wanted to pull the trigger, she felt a warm hand on her arm. Irritated, she sought out O'Neill's eyes and silently asked why he was keeping her from doing this. Sam feared, that she might loose her courage if she waited any longer.
He shook his head slightly.
"Take the knife. Saves ammunition. Is quieter, too."
She let the breath she'd been holding escape through her teeth as she put the gun back into her leg holster. He was right. The knife was the better choice. Why hadn't she though of that, instead of instinctively reaching for the gun? Probably because using a knife was a much more intimate way to kill. With the gun, she could keep her distance, physically and mentally. But with the knife, she had to be real close to the man. Something she really didn't want to.
Sam was grateful that O'Neill spared her encouraging phrases.
You can do it. It's simple. Just let it happen.
Such two-faced advice wouldn't help her. Although she knew that there was no human life left in the body in front of her. That she was staring at an empty shell, there was no way to ignore the fact that she was about to ram a long, sharp knife into a human brain. There was nothing he could possibly say to help her get over the guilty shame she felt right now. But she had no choice. There would be more moments like this in her future.
Carter let herself be guided by her determination, pushed the compassion for the poor creature on the floor in the background and ignored the pained tightness that seemed to squeeze her lungs as she thought about how it would feel when the blade cut through the soft brain. Her face was marked by stubborn defiance as she crouched down. Her right hand gripped the knife's handle until her muscles arched. She hesitated, she brooded.
Don't think, just act! – her mind called again.
But wasn't that like a common theme through her entire life? She was always analyzing and overthinking everything. She thought so long and so hard until the occasion that had triggered the idea was already over. It was not her intention to ride out a problem, she just wanted the certainty that she had considered every alternative opportunity before she did something stupid. And yet, no matter how long she mused about it, the problem in front of her would not vanish into thin air.
This new world was not made for people like her, she realized. Overthinking was deadly. Surviving depended on gut feeling, quick response, strong nerves and improvisation skills. Suddenly, she felt terribly inadequate. She was a thinker, had always been. The question was, could she change? Could she be a doer instead? Attacking problems before they attacked her? She realized that the biter in front of her was not just O'Neill's test for her. It was not just about proving to the man next to her that she was a survivor, that she could be tough, that her will to survive was strong enough for this world. No, it was also an opportunity to prove herself for her own good, to strengthen the confidence in her own abilities. To see, that she could adapt. And she needed that kind of confidence more than O'Neill needed to know that she could use a knife.
Sam couldn't estimate how long she was squatting down and pondering over it. She just knew, that O'Neill seemed to be willing to give her all the time she needed. Maybe she had been wrong about him and he wasn't the harsh brute she took him for? But this was not the time to think about that.
She looked at the human body. The man had almost reached her. She watched in slow motion as he reached out his withered arm, scratching his broken nails on the fabric of her pants. This touch was the trigger she needed. Suddenly, she wasn't thinking any longer, but acting.
If it was even possible, she grabbed the knife harder. Her arm jerked upward, swinging over her head as she gained momentum. Then the blade soared through the air and right into the head of the corpse. The impact of steel on bone felt different than she had imagined. Not so personally, not so intimate and Sam was grateful for that. But she felt the force of the impact vibrating through her arm muscles and how the knife sank into soft tissues.
She'd finally done it. But, wait, something wasn't right.
The knife was stuck in the brain, but the creature wasn't dead yet. Instead, it bared its teeth, hissed and spat at her even more. Not in pain, because these things felt nothing else but hunger, but because his prey was literally close enough to touch. Not pain was it's urge, it was anticipation. From the corner of her eye she noticed how O'Neill reached for the gun in his holster. Carter also noticed how quick and efficiently his movements were. But she was faster. She yanked at the knife, trying to pull it out of the skull. But it was stuck. Sam pulled another two or three times, but had to accept that her movements were not coordinated enough. Her hands were trembling from all the stress, just like the rest of her body, as she realized with shock.
Bony fingers tightened their grip on her leg and she could feel the pressure of the dirty fingernails on her skin. Guided by her instinct, she grabbed her gun and struggled awkwardly with the fastener until she was finally able to pull the weapon out of the holster. Quickly, she wrapped her fingers around the barrel, not around the handle, of the gun. Sam swung the gun and struck the biter's head with everything she had. The man screamed and stretched useless arms to defend himself but she was stronger. Broken bones, blood, cerebral matter and cartilage sloshed around and she felt small, wet drops on her face.
She had to look like a madwoman. The way she uncoordinated, but hell-bent hit the head repeatedly. Until there was not much left that looked human. She moaned and grunted due to the exertion, but couldn't help it. Finally…finally, the body ceased to move. Carter had worked herself in such an emotional rush, that she needed a few moments to notice. Sam hit the bloody mess one last time, then she almost slumped down. It was dead. This time for good. The gun still in her hand, she stared at her macabre work. At the pile of slobberish bones, brain blood and other tissues. She must have kept hitting the head even after the biter was dead. Trapped in some sort of tunnel vision, Sam had lost all control over herself. But wasn't that what mattered? What she secretly had wished to do? Letting go of the thinking and just doing? Trusting the animal in herself and dealing out blows right and left until no one but herself was still standing? Did she want to be that kind of person?
She was so confused with herself, and ashamed. Feeling dirty and exhausted.
Carter didn't dare to look up, although she knew O'Neill was staring at her. What was he thinking of her now? Doubtlessly that she was mad. He probably couldn't decide who was more dangerous for the group, she or a mob of biters. The way she had smashed the skull distinguished sharply from his efficient and deliberate moves and the experience he displayed.
The man surprised her as he almost appreciatively whistled through his white teeth.
"Wow, you're a mess, you know that?"
"Yeah, I know." She replied and meant more that just the obvious fact that she was full of blood and other yucky things.
When O'Neill offered her a hand, she took it wordlessly and let him help her getting up. Their eyes met. She looked ashamed to the ground, but he kept seeking eye contact. His expression was fortunately neutral when she dared to meet his glance. There was no trace of what he thought about her performance in his mimic.
When he was apparently convinced that she wouldn't fall over, he grabbed the hand that was still holding the gun tightly. The colonel almost had to pry the weapon from her fingers. Then he bent down and picked up the knife from the puddle of blood she had created, wiping it at his pants. Sam couldn't believe that he was willingly cleaning up behind her. Somewhat surprised, she took the weapons back when he held them out to her. She had expected, after her display of madness, that he would take care that there was at least ten foot between her and any kind of weapon.
This whole exchange was entirely wordless. What was there to say, after what had just happened? And to be honest, she was grateful for the silence. Sam neither wanted to hear some well-intentioned advice, nor having to say something herself. Even his next words were blessedly free of heavy meaning as he held out a brown bandana to her.
"For your face. You've got all kinds of stuff…sticking on you." He explained as she slow-witted stared at the cloth in his hands. Sam grimaced when she noticed that there was something tickling on her skin. The walker blood was already starting to dry on her face. Disgust spread in her at the thought. Quickly, she took the offered garment and rubbed it over her blood smeared face.
Now, O'Neill managed an encouraging gesture after all, albeit a very modest one. He winked at her briefly. Then pointedly turned around, walked a few steps and leaned his back at one of the shelves. Giving her a moment of privacy to compose herself. While she scrubbed her face so long until her skin was red and hurt, Sam stared at the man's back. For the short time that she knew him, he'd represented a pure nuisance for her. But now? Maybe they'd just met under really shitty circumstances. Carter still had no idea what to think of him. But at least she was willing to consider that he possessed more social intelligence than she'd given him credit for so far.
Jonas Hanson scratched his head with the barrel of his gun and grunted in annoyance when watched Quinn working. The younger man was the classic example for a bootlicker. Like the Duracell Bunny, the student hurry-scuttled around the warehouse, eager to collect everything that was vaguely edible. He was so absorbed in his work, that he didn't even notice that he was the only one still working. O'Neill's little pet. Hanson was pretty sure that the younger man had some kind of hero worshipping going on with the colonel. Quinn would do almost everything to gain O'Neill's respect, or at least a pat on the head. It was pathetic.
At first, Hanson had helped carrying the heavy filled bags to the truck. He was someone who could hitch up his knickers and tackle a problem. Or else he wouldn't have made it into O'Neill's team in the fist place. But Quinn's excessive zeal irritated him. Their days were long, hard and tiring and Hanson couldn't understand why he should outspent himself. The colonel had planned to use the whole day to fill the truck with food and other stuff. So, no reason to hurry.
Quinn seemed to have no clue, but Hanson knew exactly how to ration his energy. The key was to take time for a break and that's exactly what he was doing at the moment. While Quinn, like a hamster in his running wheel, burned off all his energy. He was leaning casually against a shelf and took a sip of water from a plastic bottle while he watched the younger man. Hanson could only shake his head, but at the same time not thinking about suggesting a break to the student. Instead, he rummaged in the backpack standing at his feet. He'd found a box of sticky energy bars wrapped in shiny cellophane. Now his stomach growled and it seemed only fair, that he had the pleasure of indulging the first bar. After all, he found them first.
Hanson crouched down and searched the different flavors for something he liked. Cranberry, too sour. Hazel, too musty. Pink Raspberry, just for women. Ah, here was something made for him. A bar with chili. That would work, since he considered himself to be hot too. He, he, what a wordplay! He straightened up again and tore the wrap impatiently. When he held the bar in his hand, he broke it into halves and stuffed both completely in his mouth.
Finally, a different flavor than beans! He chewed satisfied and with all time in the world as Quinn hurried past him with packed full sports bag. The student stumbled slightly under the weight and his eyes found the wrap of the cereal bar that Hanson had carelessly thrown on the floor. The younger man shot the still chewing Hanson a punishing glance and even had the nerve to shake his head. What a unthankful asshole! Hanson send him away with a threatening gesture on his part.
What was the guy thinking? Openly criticizing him because he was smart enough to take a break. God knew, he more than deserved it. Actually, Quinn and the other civilians should fall on their knees every time they saw him. Without Hanson, all of them would have been made into stew already. They should consider themselves lucky that Hanson, Kowalski and O'Neill hadn't left the group behind at Ford Carson. After all, it would have spared them a lot of troubles.
They were exceptional trained elite soldiers and knew how to survive. It would be much easier for them, if they didn't have to drag the civilians along like a sack of rice. But no, because Saint O'Neill thought it was the right thing to do, they had to deal with these weaklings. Hanson had to take a responsibility he didn't want. Those people were a burden for him, nothing else. They did nothing to provide security for their camp. Instead, they always demanded the soldiers help and attention. His life would be so much easier if he didn't have to wipe the asses of those scaredy pants.
But it was not just that. What bugged him more was the fact that he couldn't take a break from that responsibility. Every day brought new problems, every time there was something that one of the civilians demanded from them. Whatever it was, they always called for O'Neill, Kowalski or him to help. And slowly but surely, it started to annoy Hanson. He was a highly trained soldier, ready to storm an enemy headquarter all by himself if need be. Instead, he had to bother with their small every day problems. But he was not a damn kindergartener! In his opinion, O'Neill was much too permissive with them. They were all dependent and the colonel let them get away with it instead of showing them their place among the group. The weak ones should accept their subordinate role, not the other way around.
Therefore, Quinn should refrain from criticizing someone who was essential for his surviving. Hanson made a mental note to show the ever eager student another side of himself, should he dare to look at him like that again. Meanwhile, the chili of the cereal bar burned in his mouth and fired up his bad mood even more.
Spurred on, he roamed the aisles. He had the sudden urge to do something. It was either moving or hitting Quinn in the face. How the hell did he get caught in this fucked up situation anyway? Just as it had looked like his life would finally take the course which had always been intended for him. With his unique skills and a healthy dose of ambition, he had won a place inside Delta Force. Hanson had been so close to living his dream. Accepting secret and dangerous missions and laughing in destiny's face. But no, it had all turned out completely differently.
This goddamn disease, virus, whatever! People died and came back as stupid cannibals and the whole world had gone mad. Chaos everywhere. Good for him that he possessed abilities that were more valuable than anything else in this new world. He knew how to kill. With a gun, a knife, with bare hand if he had to. He was a killing machine without nerves and doubt. That was what distinguished him from losers like Quinn. Hanson would still be alive long after the others stumbled around as biters. And he would kill every single one of them, should they cross his way. Without hesitation. Why? Because he was a doer. Because he was a winner, whereas others lost. Because he was a born survivor among people too frightened to move quick enough. Jonas Hanson would survive this plaque, he knew that without a doubt. Because he wouldn't allow anything or anymore to slow him down. And when the time came and he would eventually be the only still living person in the world, he would see it was a compliment.
Just when he had spurred himself on, he heard Quinn dropping something. If he guessed correctly, canned food. Those fucking beans!
Suddenly angry again, he kicked at door in front of him with full force. It was a metal door, and when it didn't show any kind of damage, it only made him angrier. Hanson raged. Kicked the door again, and again and again. Until he was sure he'd broken a toe. But the pain helped to clear his mind.
Panting, now more out of exertion than out of anger, he braced himself on his tights and spat out. That had been so good, just what he needed. Letting off some steam. He needed that from time to time. Killing the biters yesterday had felt good, too. But not comparable with hitting or kicking something. Hanson craved this physical component.
Grunting in satisfaction, he decided to go back to Quinn. Just as he turned around, he heard a strange noise. A metallic, dull clan. As if metal hit metal. A loud bang. Louder and louder.
Bang
Bang
Bang
Whatever that was, it was right behind him. Hand on the gun, Hanson whirled around, ready to shoot. But there was nothing, except for the door. He took a step towards the door and almost fell when he stumbled backwards again.
Bang
Bang
Bang
The source of the noise was the door! Something behind that door threw itself repeatedly against the metal. Every time, the door frame creaked dangerously and was pushed open crack for crack.
Slowly, Jonas Hanson understood the whole situation. The door lead to the shop area. The same area that housed the huge crowd of biters visible through the shopwindow. He had probably startled them with his kicks. Not they knew that there was something eatable in the warehouse and they tried to break open the door standing between their hunger and potential food.
He had to grin and didn't know why. Those things were so pitiful. They knew nothing but hunger and eating like a pig. Unbelievable, that they were afraid of these monsters. But it wasn't the intellect of those things that made them dangerous, it was their sheer mass. A single biter was as hopeless like a bird with two broken wings. But a dozen of them was like a mob. They resembled predators and the whole world was their battleground. Hanson wondered, who would proof to be the more dangerous predator and he hoped that he could answer this question in his favor.
Fearlessly, he walked the few steps towards the door and propped both hands on the cold material. He shoved as hard as he could. The biters responded and thrust even harder.
"Hey, you hungry? You disgusting assholes! Wanna take a bite of me, huh? Come here! Try it! I'll blow your fucking heads off, I'll thrash your stinking faces!"
He yelled as he pushed against the door again and again.
At fist, his trained muscles could measure up for the biters combined weight. But he was quickly loosing the battle. The gap between the door and the frame grew bigger and bigger and soon countless chalky fingers and hands appeared, groping and grabbing for him.
Oh shit!
Hanson felt hot and cold at the same time when he stumbled backwards. Icy sweat ran down his back as he watched how the door lock gradually burst.
They would break through at any moment, and he definitely knew that he didn't want to be the first one they found on the other side. Without thinking, he started sprinting into the direction he had come from. Back to the entrance and to the truck. He wasted no thought on his colleagues.
Halfway, he collided with Quinn. The student watched him with a suspicious look.
"Hanson, what's going on?" he demanded to know, putting down a backpack full of cans.
The solider winced when he heard metal bursting and instinctively associated it with the broken door. He had neither the time nor the desire to tell the student in so many words what was going on. He just wanted to get away from here.
But he didn't get to formulate a plausible explanation when he heard the telltale sound of shuffling steps. With horror apparent in his eyes, he pushed Quinn into a dark corridor and pressed both of their bodies close to the wall, hoping that they could hide from the biters. Doing so, he bumped against the bag full of cans. It fell over and spilled its content jingling all over the floor.
He could feet the student struggling against his grip, but he stood no chance against the soldier's strength. Completely quiet and breathing heavily, the two men stood in their dark corner and peered fearfully through the shelves. Meanwhile, Quinn seemed to understand what was going on.
The shuffling grew louder. Moaning and wheezing joining. The shadows of bodies dragging themselves down the aisles filled their field of vision. They were coming closer. Hanson felt Quinn moving his hand and trying to reach something. The radio! Apparently, the student wanted to warn O'Neill and Carter. But Hanson was quicker. He gripped the fingers of the other man with his hand and squeezed so hard, that Quinn whimpered with pain.
"Try that again, and I'll break every one of your bones." Hanson threatened with a whisper. He couldn't let Quinn attract the biters.
Instead, he kicked on of the scattered cans and hoped for a distraction. The can zoomed over the smooth floor and collided somewhere on the other side of the hall. Instantly, the biters responded to the noise. Their shadows stopped, then turned around and started moving into the direction in which the can had disappeared in the darkness.
Hanson remained a few moments in his stupor, until he was sure that the monsters were far enough away to escape. Then he pushed the student away and menacingly stared down at the smaller man. When he realized that Quinn was either too scared to fight back or wisely refrained from doing so, he grabbed him roughly by the collar and pulled him along. They path war clear, so he ran. Away from the warehouse and those beast who would now certainly hunt O'Neill and Carter. But that wasn't his problem.
If someone survived, someone else did not. If someone was a winner, there automatically had to be a loser. That was the circle of life. Jonas Hanson was at the top of the food chain, and he liked that.
In the next chapter: Sam and Jack are forced to spend the night together (no, not like that!) and to get to know each other.