Chapter 6

The river was higher than usual this time of year. It had been a hard winter, but all the extra snow meant more snow melt trickled down from the mountain peaks into the valleys below. Willow watched the riverbeds carefully from an old oak tree. Bears were fattening up about this time, and although she was probably too scrawny to prove tempting, she didn't care to test out her theory.

It was quiet, peaceful. The river rushed below, frigid but clear. A few rabbits were rustling in a bush nearby. She could try to trap them, but they'd eaten their share of roasted hare during the thick snowfalls. Rabbit meat didn't stick in the belly, hunger set in soon anyways.

Seeing no imminent danger, Willow slid down the oak tree, landing with a soft thud. She would be maybe twenty years old or so now, but age didn't matter anymore. Just surviving. Her hair was cut short for convenience, closely cropped and likely a poor job done, although she'd never been accused of vanity. Alive or dead, that's all that matters. Keep the tribe alive.

She scrambled down the riverbed to a small alcove where some of the river water collected. A tree was overturned, old and ancient, with heavy netting wrapped around the thick trunk that collected the river boon below. Willow pulled off her worn boots and waded in, hissing at the icy-cold water. The lines were still tight, and when she lifted the nets, fish flapped in protest, gaping mouths searching for water and finding none.

Willow loaded the prizes in two large baskets nearby and threaded a long stick through the handles. Then, she holstered the stick behind her neck, and carried her fishy harvest back home. She sang softly, an old Irish song her grandmother used to sing in Gaelic. She didn't know what the words meant, but the song was pretty and it was a fine day outside.

It was a good catch, and once the fish were salted and smoked, they'd have enough to feed them for almost the whole week. The Witch will be pleased, Willow thought happily. Then, if she found out about the little girl that followed Willow the other night and spied on the Witches' ceremony, she would remember Willow's boon and be merciful. She hoped, anyways.

Yes, it was sure to be a good day.

/ / / / /

Ever since he returned from Littlechapel, Negan couldn't help but look at his own settlement through new eyes. Sanctuary, despite the name, was a dingy, reclaimed factory in a concrete jungle. An asphalt road provided easy access for travel, and the area itself was bare, only a handful of other industrial buildings deemed too dangerous to reside in with old chemicals and toxic barrels leaking God-Knows-What into the air, into the soil. There wasn't anyone around anymore to properly dispose of the stuff, and so it would poison the earth long after the last person fled.

Sure, there were trees nearby, forests even, that the Saviors hunted and trapped in, but the aesthetics were lacking. Negan worried occasionally about explosions in the area from the other abandoned places. Volatile materials building up, all it took would be one spark, and KABLOOEY.

But Sanctuary was alright. It was imposing, but safe. Not pretty.

Sanctuary housed almost two hundred people, almost half of them were Saviors in some shape or form. The rest were survivors of varying pre-Collapse professions (and of varying usefulness, in Negan's opinion), although anyone could push a broom or clear plates away. Halfway-Harry didn't have all the lights on upstairs (Negan used to joke Harry was always "halfway there," and the name stuck) and even he could make himself useful working on salvaged cars so long as someone brought him food from time-to-time and made sure he stayed away from peeping in on the ladies' showers.

Negan leaned on the railing of his balcony, high up on the factory and sipped bitter black coffee. The sting of hot asphalt hung in the air, as always, but it was particularly pungent today. The sun beat down, slowly eroding everything man-made that lay outside with a pleasant warmth.

Rick the Prick had gotten lucky with his digs, beautiful suburbia that came with impressive defenses. Hilltop was picturesque too, an old plantation house on fields of grass. Even the Kingdom, which Negan rarely visited, was set in an old school, plenty of trees and flowerbeds that broke up the concrete expanses. Negan's own kingdom was just asphalt, concrete, and sheet metal. Even the gardens were on asphalt in raised beds. Pitiful little plants prone to disease that sputtered out meager offerings, struggled not to be baked in the steel containers and radiating heat from the ground below. The soil was bad, the workers said, but they tried all different kinds to no avail.

The air filled with the sound of hammering, sawing, residents going about their little jobs like good worker ants. Negan took a sip of coffee and braced himself against the bitterness. Christ, he thought. Even those kids could make a better cup of coffee. A whole settlement of kids that was far more picturesque than anything he'd ever seen. How in the hell had they managed to pull that off?

He poured out the rest of the coffee over the balcony. It splattered on the ground below, narrowly avoiding a Savior carrying lumber who looked around in confusion for a moment before proceeding. Maybe now it will smell like shitty coffee and asphalt.

His office was large enough to house several loitering Saviors, although this morning it was blissfully empty. Too early for most of them to come bother him. The floor was cold concrete, hardly inviting, which was why he used to love it. Now, he looked around at the grey floors, grey walls, bland standard white-tiled ceiling used in any generic soul-sucking office. The bar had a nice mahogany finish though, probably the nicest thing in here. At least it didn't smell like asphalt in here, it just smelled….grey. Like nothing in particular, not even like Negan. He wasn't in here often enough, he realized.

Neither had he visited his wives in some time. Four lovely ladies, hand-picked and offered the world. But time eroded their initial affection, and now all he got from them was blank looks, or sloppy drunken flirtations when they wanted something. Only Sherry still seemed to hold some sort of regard for him, and even that was tenuous at best. Negan was adrift, a ship without an anchor.

Papers and ledgers were strewn about the desk. Negan flipped through them idly, not registering their contents. He relied more on his people telling him what was going on, none of this record-keeping that the Accountant was obsessed by. Nice guy, he took a lot off of Negan's plate. But boy, he sure loved graphs and charts, and Negan sure as hell didn't.

Just as he sat down to look over reports from the outposts, someone knocked on the door.

"Yeah?"

Dwight opened the door. "Got a minute, sir?"

Negan nodded. Dwight shut the door behind him and took a seat across from Negan's desk. His blond hair hung long over his ears, and partially obscured his half-burnt face. He was nervous, but not more so than usual. Dwight had a nervous aura of sorts, but not the spastic, visible nervousness like Kevin. Dwight's was more of…heightened awareness. He could sense Negan's moods sometimes before even Negan could.

"What do you know about someone that calls themselves 'The Witch?'" Negan asked.

Dwight shrugged. "Never heard of them. Why?"

"Just heard some fuckin' whispers. I want to know who they are before they know about us. Get on the horn to the outposts, just ask around. They might operate up in the mountains, out of our reach. Casual, no need to raise an alarm. Just curious."

"Alright, I'll ask around. Sir." Dwight glanced around the office. Though he'd already eyed the room thoroughly when he first came in, he had a habit of constantly scanning. It made Negan feel more at ease, although it made most others nervous. Like Dwight could see things that they couldn't.

Negan raised his eyebrows. "Drop the 'sir' shit, it's just us in here, Dwighty-boy. So, what the fuck do you want?"

"Thought I'd give you a rundown, got a few things that need your attention, sir. Er, sorry."

"Pro-fuckin'-ceed."

Dwight pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "Let's see. Doc says Simon will recover, and said, in private, it's not as bad as Simon is letting on. It was a clean wound, muscle only. Doc thinks he's trying to get extra painkillers but he just needs to take it easy. No heavy lifting, you know the drill."

Negan sighed. "Keep an eye on him."

"Alright. Pick-ups for the Kingdom and Hilltop went well, although the Kingdom was short a few boxes. Said they had some deer jump the fence and got to some of the crops, but now they've got plenty of venison for jerky, and they've give us extra next time when the meat is smoked. They called ahead like they were supposed to, so Arat and the gang only gave them a little bit of grief. Hilltop was in order, but I think there's something up with Timothy. He's acting squirrelly."

"He's always fuckin' squirrelly."

"Well, more so that usual."

"Alright. We'll send Simon over with some men once Doc clears him, keep an eye on Timothy. I don't want Simon around here anyways, he stirs up too much fuckin' trouble. He's better with the illusion of authority, so I'll give it to 'em."

Dwight scribbled on the paper. "We're due for a run to Alexandria, I figured you'd want to come along for that." Negan nodded. "Last thing, Outpost Bravo reports one of their scouts saw a massive herd coming from the Atlanta area, headed in our general area. May be a week or so out, or they may change direction."

"Have Bravo track the herd from a safe distance. If they are still on course in another day or so, divert 'em back."

More scribbling. "Alright. Lastly, the Accountant's got a bug up his ass about something. He won't tell me what it is."

Negan chuckled. The Accountant was a little balding man with thick spectacles that seemed to thrive with numbers and ledgers. He had been incredibly useful, though his standards for a problem were vastly different than Negan's standard. He leaned back and shook his head. "That little pencil-pusher always has a fuckin' bee in his bonnet."

"Well, this is different. He usually broadcasts to everyone what's wrong, and he's being cagey about this one. Says he'll only talk to you." Dwight shrugged. Negan felt a pang – it was unusual. Outside of normal behavior, which meant something was outside of the normal operations. He didn't let Dwight on, instead casually strolling towards the balcony door.

"Well, doesn't he know how to create suspense? Send him up when you see him." Negan pulled the doors open, allowing a rush of air to fill the office. He went back to his desk and shuffled papers again, looking for the inventory logs to review. He looked up, and Dwight still sat there, looking unsure. "What is it?"

Dwight cleared his throat. "It's…one more thing. About Amber."

Negan leaned back in his chair. He knew what Dwight was going to say already, but waited for the words to escape his lips. Amber, the weakest of his wives. Pretty, but fragile. Poor impulse control. God-fucking-dammit.

"She uh, one of the guys caught her in some storage closet. With her ex. Again."

Again. This shit was getting old. Amber had never been quite content as one of Negan's wives, even from the beginning. She was kind-hearted when she wasn't worrying about herself and beautiful to boot, but lately all Negan ever saw her do was look miserable and slam shots of liquor like she was back in college.

Negan's wives had a choice. They could toil and work like all the other Sanctuary residents, or they could live idly, given anything they could want and just look pretty and perform marital duties when asked. They could refuse, of course. That's why he had multiple wives- back-up. Well, not the only reason, it also showed the others Who Was The Boss. For a time, it had been fun.

But lately, they'd all been drinking from the same cup of misery, and Negan haunted their chambers less and less. Caged rabbits, wide-eyed and panicking. Not much of a turn-on. When they did want him, they were sloppy and kept their eyes closed, probably picturing someone – anyone else.

"Didn't I already burn half of that motherfucker's fuckin' face?" Negan sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Ah. Yep." Dwight looked down at his hands. His own unburnt cheek turned pink.

"Ah, shit. No hard feelings, Dwighty-boy. Alright, let me think on this shit, and get the fuck out."

Dwight nodded, and slipped out of the room. Negan was half-inclined to release all four of his wives at this point. In the beginning, even Amber looked at him through hooded eyes, a soft smile, lingering touch…

But shit… now? If Sherry asked to go back with Dwight, he'd be half-inclined to agree, and no hot iron to anyone's face this time. They'd agreed to be his wives out of lust and desperation. Negan could charm the fur coat off of a fucking Eskimo, and the wives would have an easier life, no more boiling clothes for laundry or toiling in the hot sun for some pathetic looking tomatoes. But idleness, as it often does, made them bored and petty. His wives' guards were having to break up more and more fights over stupid, pointless things, and other (less interesting, in Negan's opinion) women that wanted to be the fifth wife were hovering around like flies to shit. Tits up and out, lips pouted, eyes batting. All wanting to do nothing more than ride him like the last train out of Memphis.

It was…numbing. Not from lack of excitement, there always was drama at Sanctuary. Whether it was grumbles of discontent, food shortage, or approaching herd, there always was something to be concerned about.

No, this was different. Negan looked at his wives sometimes and felt…nothing. Judging by their empty eyes, they felt the same. His wives picked fights with each other, with him, and he returned the favor. But if he dropped them, it would be weak. He had bragged enough about it in the early days, forbidding anyone else from taking multiple wives. It was now automatic for him to brag about it and make little comments, just to remind everyone. But the nights he'd claim to go visit his wives for an all night love-fest, they were often spent in his office. He'd be bent over paperwork or reading some book, his wives draped over various furniture as they flicked through magazines, or slept.

You dug this hole, now you better make a ladder. Or drown, when the inevitable storm comes.

Shit. Negan grabbed Lucille and stormed to the office door. He needed to go to the front gates, find a walker, and bash it to a pulp. He threw open the door, only to almost toppled over the Accountant.

The slight little man squeaked in surprise and nearly fell backwards before Negan grabbed him, his wire-rimmed glasses knocked askew. Papers and books went flying in the hallway like a flock of startled birds.

After several stammered apologies and a good five minutes of picking up the loose papers and books, Negan was back at his desk. The walls were closing in tighter and tighter as he tried very patiently to wait quietly as the Accountant steadied his nerves. Deep breath in, exhale out.

"So sorry, sir," he stammered out, for the hundredth time.
"Don't sweat it. Now, Dwight said you had something important to tell me?" Negan racked his brain to remember the Accountant's real name, but drew only a blank. It was an old man's name, like Maurice or Murray…

"Ah. Yes. Apologies for the mysteries, I felt it was't my place to share, until you decided who could be trusted, sir."

Negan leaned forward and stretched out his hands, palms up. "Well, consider me fuckin' interested."

The Accountant cleared his throat and fiddled with his tie. It always impressed Negan how this little man could get up every day and put on his tweed suit, complete with a tie, as if the Collapse had never happened. He cleared his throat. "Ahem. I believe someone is pilfering supplies, sir."

Negan cocked an eyebrow. "Really?"

The Accountant nodded, his glasses flashed white as they reflected the office lights. "We always have a small amount of theft, that can't really be helped. A pack of cigarettes here, a few cans there. Inventory is made once a supply or scavenging trip comes back, in addition to our weekly inspections. But for scavenging trips, there's also usually some theft before the supplies actually make it to Sanctuary." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a never-ending struggle for the ever-perspiring man.

Negan rolled his eyes and shot him a sheepish grin. "One of the reasons they go on those goddamn scavenging trips is to fill their own fuckin' pockets first. Unfortunate, but an acceptable fuckin' casualty, so long as they keep it to a dull fuckin' roar. So what's the problem?"

"Ahem. Absolutely, I agree completely. They risk their lives, so what's a bottle of whiskey here and there?" He pushed up his glasses. "This isn't the problem. It's happening after drop-off inventory is completed. I would have marked these as incidental, but they appear to be quite regular. A…pattern has emerged."

The Accountant pulled out a series of bar graphs, and Negan suppressed a groan. He took a deep breath: inhale in for ten seconds, exhale out for six. This is why you delegate, he told himself. The Accountant lived for orders and numbers, and while irritating, shifted some of Negan's most dreaded burdens.

The Accountant practically hummed in excitement, his voice no longer trembling and his hands as steady as a surgeon. "You see here on this chart - usually thefts are sporadic. You run a tight ship, and someone may sneak an extra can of soup for a sick friend, or a pair of socks if they can't afford the points to purchase them." He shuffled some papers, presenting a new chart. "Now look here- these thefts are quite regular. At least once a week, and a mix of food, ammo, medical supplies, small tools and equipment. I noticed it first with the food, which I personally supervise, then requested inventories from the others. Some I can rule out as incidental, but some go missing on the same day."

Negan glared down at the charts. They normally meant very little to him. He would shuffle through the papers, nodding and make "hmm" sounds at various intervals, then wait for the Accountant to give his recommendations. But this… it was organized, methodical. Piecemeal theft that likely would have gone largely unnoticed, if it weren't for the meticulous bald little man that sat quietly across from him.

The Accountant waited patiently, fingers laced together and resting on the desk, as Negan flicked through the papers before him.

Finally, Negan spoke quietly. "Thank you-" Milton! It was Milton!

"Thanks, Milton." The Accountant beamed at him, pleased. Negan continued: "I'm going to think on this. You did good with this, coming straight to me." He leaned back in his chair and studied the nervous little man's face. "You've always been loyal to me, and you don't fuckin' cause trouble. What can I do for you? You don't smoke. Booze? Women? My wife Tanya has a thing for eggheads. You show her these graphs and her panties will hit the floor like a sack of bricks."

The Accountant chuckled nervously, his cheeks now bright pink, and he pushed up his glasses. "Ah, no. Thank you, but I politely decline. I don't require anything…" His eyes lit up, and he leaned forward excited. "Actually, now that you mention it – just a trifle really, but it would be immensely helpful. I could use a spare pair of glasses, I can write down the prescription, should your men ever come across the correct kind. Nothing flashy, please. And a new typewriter would be a delight – the carriage gets stuck on the one I have, and oh! The ink gets everywhere."

Negan flashed a smile. "You got it. I'll have my men keep an eye out on their rounds."

"Very good, sir!"

When he was finally alone again, Negan looked over the list of missing supplies. A wide variety of things, and all essential to surviving the world outside.

This asshole- whoever they are- what the fuck are they planning?

Whatever it was, it wasn't good. And Negan aimed to find out who was behind it.

/ / / / /

AN: Hope you all are enjoying the story so far! I originally aimed to do updates every other weekend, but my work/life balance has been severely tilted towards "work" at the moment and I scarcely have enough free time to take care of myself, let alone write. Your comments, favorites, PMs, etc. are always appreciated and provide me much needed sustenance. I appreciate all of you, even you: the silent reader that come and devour stories. Me too. I read to escape from the world, to recharge my batteries, sometimes to forget the messes and anxieties of the world. I know some of you do, too.

Please stay safe out there, don't let worries paralyze you, and take care, lovelies.

xoxoxox