Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.
a/n: I am still writing this fic close to the main story line, the main gist of the plots being the same, as I feel those personal character arcs are very important to whichever character's emotional/physical progression. This particular plot arc I am writing now, will still remain fairly canon, although it will veer off AU. There are a few new situations, new characters and new OC's, while still keeping to the original storyline. The next chapter should be right back to where we left off with Merle.
Lately I have become pretty much discouraged and sadly demoralized by the lack of response to this fic, and a number of times (including right now) I've gotten so close to just packing it all in. I honestly just don't know any more. There is a point coming up close now in this story, where I can change my intended plot and put an alternative end to it, and one of those is if Merle finally meets the Governor, and if it is revealed that Carol is from the prison group. So...please read and review, or even pm, it would help let me know if what I am doing is right or wrong, or even whether I should continue writing and submitting this fic to this site.
Thanks.
...
"I know what you're thinking, Brian, but I ain't about to go and turn anyone away. Not when they turn up on our doorstep."
Brian turned away from Carol, his one eyed gaze fixing back to the Hispanic man. "I'm just surprised that you can so easily break the rules that you yourself enforced."
Caesar stared back. "I didn't force anything. Besides," he laughed nervously. "Rules can be broken. Some."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that fact," Brian answered, his hand dropping away from the young girls shoulder. "Go, find your mom, pumpkin," he said softly. Meghan smiled back at him, before skipping off into the direction of a large RV with a lowered down canopy -several plastic chairs and a forlorn dirt encrusted table littered the flattened grassed area. Brian raised his head, his one lone eye hard and steely. "Rules are what keep us from being one step away from a dog-eat-dog world. You need to remember that."
"Can we wind this crap down?" Mitch said abruptly, coming into view and watching them with a bored expression. He fastidiously wiped his fingers on an oily rag before tossing it carelessly to the ground. "If you wanna make that run, Bri -you need to cut the chatter and move the hell on out. Unless you've got a reason for stalling?"
Brian shrugged, "You're right," he answered quietly. "Let's go."
Martinez stepped back a pace, watching Brian warily. "You sure you're ready for this?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Brian snapped suddenly. "I can handle the biters."
"I know, man, just...take it easy out there. It ain't the same no more," Caesar replied, stepping back again a pace as Brian moved past him.
"Hello, bitches?" Mitch broke in. "Ain't got time for this," he said tapping a finger on his arm. "Tick fucking tock."
"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Brian asked as he paused near Carol. She looked up at him quickly, shaking her head. Brian hummed in response, crossing his arms briefly over his chest, rubbing and tapping his chin thoughtfully with one finger. "If there's one thing I know...one thing that I'm absolutely sure of...I don't ever forget a face." He stared at her intently for a moment longer. "It will come to me, don't you go worrying about that. I'm sure of it."
Martinez watched as Brian strode away, his long denim clad legs quickly crossing the distance, weaving past make-shift tables and upturned barrels to where Pete stood with Diego, the two men shouldering semi-automatic rifles. Caesar turned his head and looked back towards the small grey haired woman, watching her closely. He'd seen the spark of recognition in her eyes as she'd looked at Blake, the way she had almost shrunk away from him as he'd walked past, her silence seeming like an admittance of something more. His interest in her raised another notch, his curiosity pricking him. He hadn't bought into the bullshit story that Tara had told him about her for one single minute.
"See you later, ladies," Mitch grinned, purposely shoving hard against Martinez and jostling him on his feet. "Don't go waiting up on us," he called out over his shoulder.
"El pelotudo," Caesar retorted. He glanced at Carol, his brown eyes narrowing as he ignored Mitch as the former tank operator flipped him the bird. "You should get settled in camp. Night isn't so far away. We've got only one trailer spare, far end of the camp. It ain't anything special, previous owner chose to skip right out of town a few days back. But, you're welcome to use it. Hola, Sandy!" he called out to a woman with long brown hair tied up in a loose ponytail. "Show la pequeña señora Kenny's old trailer."
Sandy looked across at her and sighed, "New in town, huh?" she asked.
"Something like that," Carol answered shakily as Caesar strode away from them. They started walking through the camp, Carol watching briefly as a balding man in dirty denims, and a grizzled salt and pepper beard, tried to light a small stack of lumber in an upturned barrel, his muffled cuss words reaching across to them as he wrestled a bic lighter to work. "Arrived today," she said, looking back at Sandy and frowning. "I lost the group I was with-"
"Yeah," the other woman clucked sympathetically. "Hear that around here way too often." She nodded her head towards a small group of men and women moving around the camp, oblivious to them as they walked, intent on the menial tasks in hand. "Every single man, woman and child here has some sort of sob story, no offense," she said, glancing at Carol.
Carol shrugged, "None taken."
"We've all been through this. Every single one of us. We know the drill to the letter. At the start of this... myself? I got the hell out of Atlanta as fast as I damn well could. Got holed up with a small group about twenty miles south. The suburbs-I don't know why, but we thought we'd be okay there. There were fifty-two of us all told at the start-mostly living in cars, tents...anything we could find and use...trying to figure the hell out of this shit." She stared across the camp, her eyes glazing momentarily in thought and sorrow. "There was one family with us that lived in an old school bus," she said softly. "The Hudson's. They had two cute little kids. Well... we thought we were safe. But we were wrong. So damn wrong. Roamers attacked our camp one night, and out of the fifty-two of us, eleven made it through. We lost more on the road till the Dolgen's turned up in their goddamn tank, and saved our pitiful asses." Sandy shrugged, looking at her again. "Look, Carol, I'm sorry, but I'm not begging for your sympathy here, hell I don't even know why I told you this stuff-it's ancient history. I'm just saying that we've all got our own personal tales of hell and heartbreak. And I just...I just can't bear to hear anymore of it. You understand that?"
"Yeah," Carol nodded, "I understand. And there's no need to explain anything. You're right, every single one of us...we've all lost people, good people. Family. But we've got to move on. We have to."
Sandy looked at her thoughtfully, then glanced away. "We're here. Kenny's old trailer."
Carol looked at the small trailer, saw the way that it sat leaning at a slight angle in the dirt and thick grass. It looked battered and ancient, moss growing in the corners of the window frames, the once deluxe white and now pitted and grey metallic panels peeling away from the body, almost as if in shame and regret of the memory of what it had once been. The dark glass of its windows were smeared thickly with grease and grime, the stagnant darkness welling ominously from within. "What happened to...Kenny?"
"Kenny? He was always a little...I don't know, avant-garde? Bit of an aging hippie that smoked too much of what he used to call 'his little herbal pep-tonics'. Guess it all finally got too much for him. He must have gotten stoned right out of his tree and decided to take a walk with the roamers. All we found next day was a spatter of blood in the grass...and his boots. Nothing else. Just his goddamn boots. I miss him-even though he was an eccentric old fool."
"Some aren't cut out for this. To survive. To do what you have to. It's like they shut down and refuse to face it anymore," Carol answered softly, ignoring the sharp knowing look on Sandy's face. "I was the same. I don't know, maybe I still am. I don't know how I'm going to cope without my old group, without the men to keep-"
"Hey," Sandy said quickly, grabbing at her arm. "You're here now, and you've survived this long. That's got to count for something, right? And hell...maybe this...maybe it isn't so bad. The men in the camp here? They're always on watch, always on guard. You'll be safe. You're not alone now, and we won't go and leave you like your old group did. Safety in numbers, and all that good time crap."
"Maybe," she answered, as Sandy tugged the door open. Her nose wrinkled at the sudden pungent aroma that greeted her. She raised an eyebrow. "Guess Kenny wasn't so good at home-keeping?"
Sandy laughed, before a sudden serious expression smoothed its way quickly across her features. "Hey, Carol. You're new, and I don't know...I kinda like you. So, I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and give you a word to the wise. Keep an eye out on Brian Heriot-"
"Brian?" Carol asked quickly. "Is there a problem?"
"Mhm. He...he has this way of looking at you. Like he sees right through you. A couple of the girls-"
"He seemed fine to me. Almost charming."
Sandy snorted, one hand still resting on the latch of the door. "My dad always used to say that even the devil was an angel once. Just be careful, okay?"
...
The mustiness and damp dimness of the trailer pervaded her senses as soon as the door clicked softly shut. She paced slowly and restlessly towards the bunk at the far end of the camper, sitting gingerly on the thin mattress, feeling the sharp twang of the springs as they dug into her. She sighed softly to herself, setting the little battery operated lamp she'd found in the small kitchenette area on to the bed next to her. The light was wan and feeble and did little to dispel the murky surroundings that she found herself in. Her nose prickled delicately at the multitude of aromas that assaulted her. Musk, the sour smell of old sweat, the insidious aroma of damp and neglect, aged old semen and the pungent sweet aroma of weed mixed all along with the faint ammonia of cat urine.
She coughed into her hand, bile suddenly rising and burning in her throat, and she leaned heavily on the moldering bunk, one hand splayed flat on the dampness of the thin mattress. She glanced around the trailer, narrowing her eyes in the dim light as she spied out the shape of her backpack next to the door where she'd left it. She thought of Merle as she looked at the knapsack, the sudden empty wistful pang filling and aching her heart.
Carol rose from the bunk, glancing around the pitiful trailer. She was weaponless -Caesar still had her revolver and knife, but maybe there was something that she could find-something overlooked. She rummaged through drawers, sighing in weariness as the only things that she found was a flat headed screwdriver, several screws and nuts, and a wad of paper, slightly bloated in the damp air. She carried them both back to the bunk, sitting heavily as she skimmed through the papers.
Sandy was right on one thing. The previous occupant had been nothing if an eccentric. Several carefully sketched drawings festooned the first dozen pages, amateurishly drawn sketches of crucifixes, giant eyes, old women and butterflies-the style similar to a stunted version of Salvador Dali. She bent her head to the pages, thumbing through and begrudgingly admiring the artworks. Soon the intensive pencil drawings devolved into nothing more than seemingly mindless sketches of child-like nightmarish figures -all thickly scribbled in black -dark shadowy figures with glowing eyes and snapping pointed teeth.
She shut the art pad quickly, and dropped it to the floor.
She sat for a while in silence, drawing her knees up to her chest, clasping her hands around her legs as the tears started thick and hotly. For what felt like the hundredth time, she doubted herself. What she'd done. Karen and David were dead, and it was because of her. She thought of the sketchpad, the figures etched harsh and crudely in black.
Was she any different to the monsters drawn within?
Her eyes slowly drifted across the trailer, the breath sitting sourly in her lungs and catching in her throat. How could she even hope to come back from this. From any of it? Her eyes drifted unseeingly until they rest on the dark mass next to the door, and she stumbled her way over to it, reaching out her hand and grasping at the backpack and drawing it close. She held onto it for a moment, refusing to give voice to her grief, until curiosity piqued at her enough to unzip it.
She turned it up, end over end, hurriedly shaking and discarding the contents onto the bunk, gritting her teeth in frustration as she found nothing that she could use to arm and defend herself. She sighed again, half angry with herself.
One thing that registered in her mind was the rolled up bundle of dark fabric that fell with a soft thump to the ground. Quickly, she scooped the other contents back into the backpack, until she was stupidly aware that there was nothing left but her, the now refilled backpack, and the dark swatch of material that littered like a blank shadow on the dirt grimed floor. She leaned forwards, scooping it up and clasping it to her chest. It was Merle's shirt. The one that he'd worn when he'd tried and failed to take on the Governor by himself, and she for some unknown reason, had clung onto and tried desperately to fix and repair the tattered garment.
A single solitary tear slipped down her cheek unnoticed as she leaned forwards, scooping the material up and holding it close. She pressed her face in to the fabric, the touch of the corded material soft against her skin, the scent of stale cigarettes, motor oil and the uniqueness of himstill clinging to the fabric.
She held onto the shirt for a moment, before dropping it quickly into her lap. She had to get away. She had to leave, and she had to do it soon. She didn't know any of the others in the camp -she hadn't seen many of them since she'd entered, but the one thing she felt almost certain on, was that the man with the eye patch went by another name, and that name was not Brian Heriot.
He'd called them 'Biter's'.
She knew from her time spent with Merle at the prison, that was what he'd also called them. It seemed to her then, that the term biter had to come from Woodbury. Sandy had called them 'Roamers'...
A sudden jarring thought struck her. She might be here in this camp, alone without any of the others anymore, but maybe, just maybe it could be enough. Maybe she was enough to lay this goddamn demon to rest. Maybe she could do it...maybe she could do what Andrea and Merle had both failed to do.
Carol shoved the shirt from her lap, glancing to her side, her eyes slowly fixing on to the screwdriver. She grasped it firmly, her heart starting to pick up speed and pound in her chest, and she quickly tucked the implement in to the side of her boot, pulling her pants leg over the top, concealing it.
She took a deep breath, smoothing her hands over her hair, willing her nerves to calm down, the urgency and need to investigate the camp...to try to blend in with the others so that she could learn more. Only then -when she was sure, would she take any action, and try to put a stop to it all.
…
A faint wind rustled through the vibrant green leaves of the ash and beech trees that lined a few yards from the bank of the lake, the first hint of rain gently spattering down like a fine mist, sending small spirals that swam on the surface of the water. Two dragonflies flitted and danced at the edge, the receding sun sending little chips of shimmering blue off their bodies that glinted and twinkled in the light.
Caesar watched them for a while, lost in thought as he absently raised a beer bottle to his lips and drained it, casually wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He swayed slightly on his feet as he glanced at the bottle, before tossing it into the water, watching as the two blue dashers darted away into the reeds at the sudden unexpected motion. The bottle hit the water with a soft plop, sending a larger spiraling circle that grew outwards until it lost itself in the soft undulations of the lake.
Footsteps sounded behind on the wooden jetty, and he glanced over his shoulder, a reluctant smile on his face as the other man walked towards him, two bottles held in his hand by their necks.
"Good man," Caesar slurred, chuckling to himself at the sound of his own voice. "Refreshments. Good plan," he nodded as he gazed back at the tranquil waters. Rain fell softly, cooling his skin, and he rubbed his hand over his forehead, trailing fingers through his damp hair.
"How long you been out here?"
"Got no idea," Caesar frowned as he turned towards him. "What the hell does it matter anyway? Pass one over," he gestured to the bottles. "A man gotta die of thirst before...hey... Scott – el amigo, the camp perimeters? They've all been checked?"
The tall man at his side nodded, then seeing that the Hispanic wasn't paying attention, nudged him with one of the bottles. "All done and dusted. Not seen any of the biters, well not on my side, and not on my shift. Who knows? Maybe they've fucked off for the night."
"Thanks," Caesar said, taking the bottle, and using his knife to flip the metal lid off. He drained half of the amber contents quickly, feeling the alcohol starting to numb some of the worry that had been spearing his guts. He wondered briefly if he was getting paranoid...the nagging itch in the back of his mind warning him that he was slowly losing control-Caesar shook his head, dismissing the thought as he looked back at the bottle in his hand. "Wish it were that simple. Them biters...man, they're always there."
"Yeah, tell me about it. Looks like it's going to be a quiet night though."
Caesar shrugged, staring at the water before glancing back at the lanky long haired man to his side. He'd been surprised as hell when Pete and Mitch had brought him back to camp a few weeks back, had seen and wondered about the bruises on his face. "You gonna drink that?"
"Give me a break, dude." Scott looked at him, and smirked slyly, "Told you, I've not long finished my shift, and I see you here, alone. Thought you could do with the company. And the beers. What are you doing out here anyway? On your own?"
"You ask too many questions, amigo," Caesar slurred softly. He felt suddenly vulnerable and uneasy in the other mans presence. Scott had always been one of those unremarkable men that had flitted and faded into the distance, a vague face among many at Woodbury. But now Scott was here, and he was hanging onto Mitch and Diego's shirt-tails like some ass kissing bitch. There was something going on, but Caesar was damned if he knew what.
"Fuck to the biters, and fuck to the God damned rain," Scott said as he raised the bottle to his mouth and drank a little of it, before tossing the bottle irritably into the water, his brown eyes narrowing and glinting in the early evening light. "Let's get our damn asses back."
Caesar stood a moment, silently contemplating the calm cool deep water of the lake, before turning his back to it, the bottle dangling loosely in his hand as he stumbled after Scott. The sharp fresh smell of ozone stung at his nose, raising the hairs on his arms. "There's a storm coming," he murmured softly to himself. "Shit's gonna go down. Don't you feel it?"
"Shit, Martinez, just how much have you had to fucking drink?" Scott laughed, the sudden boom of his voice stirring up a small flock of roosting birds that flew up out of the trees.
…
The stillness and silence permeated the lake not long after the two men left, their muffled voices dampened down by the vastness of the thick woods. Lush green tree-leaves and overgrown tangled shrubs ripe with rain water, rustled limply as a soft gentle breeze stirred through them and slowly picked up momentum.
The water underneath the jetty swirled and bubbled, large circles forming and skimming across the surface, breaking the even placidness. In the dark depths of the lake, chains rattled; the sound unnoticed and unheard in the rapidly churning water. Two pale forms fluttered then grasped, fingers uncurling from death, reawakening and twitching, somehow sensing that prey had been near but was now suddenly gone. A face gaped hungrily, eyes large and milky white under the film of water.
...