Chapter 12 – Teenage Angstland
"For the record," Stevie drawled, lounging near and shamelessly eavesdropping on the Grimes–Walsh throuple's huddle, "I vehemently disagree with your dumbass plan and fully intend to laugh in your faces when it fails."
That earned exasperated glares from Rick, Shane, and Lori as well as an embarrassed hiss of "Stevie" from her mama. The other exhausted inhabitants in the small, putrid room were pretending not to hear, though many faces held smirks, some more obvious than others. Merle, for example, looked like Christmas had come early, while Jim and Dr. Jenner could barely conjure visible amusement. Michonne continued to observe and judge (and hopefully come closer and closer to agreeing to stage a coup and rule with an iron but actually sensible fist).
"That's unfair," Lori scolded, "And no help at all."
"I was helpful last night," the teen sassed. "Your main boy-toy threw a grenade at my helpfulness."
The bitchy woman had no real answer for that, so Shane defaulted to aggro posturing, squaring up and looming over Stevie with the threat of violence as he snapped, "Lemme tell you somethin-"
A deep snarl from Bruno cut off the diatribe and made the room freeze.
"Go on," the teen taunted, grinning and running her fingers through her bestest boy's silky and currently bristling fur. "Tell me somethin."
Fun fact: All of Bruno's official paperwork listed him as a mostly Newfoundland mutt, and his appearance definitely sold that story. But the truth was that he was (not at all by accident) half-Newfie and half–cane corso, a breed of mastiff whose name roughly translates to "bodyguard dog." As of his last weigh-in, Bruno was 150 pounds of Do Not Fuck With. (Stevie had wanted and sought out nothing less than a ginormous fluffy bestie who would and could rip out throats in her defense, if he ever got pushed that far.)
Shane backed down, and the growling immediately stopped, leaving behind tense silence as everyone realized that Bruno was a bit more protective and vicious than the average service animal. (He had extensive professional training, of course, which standardly did not include guard work, but Stevie (an admittedly paranoid and obstinate and mostly feral little fucker) had trained him herself every day since. And she knew that nine times out of ten, assholes who get in your face and shout and try to intimidate are scared off at the first sign of a bigger and meaner animal.)
The group stayed quiet for a while as they ate, enjoying MREs and bottled water thanks to Stevie's foresight and generosity, which she'd pointed out before consenting to hand over anything—though infuriatingly enough, Shane's addition of a bottle of booze had earned the most enthusiastic reactions. (Priorities, people. Goddamn.) Eventually, most of the men stomped into the hallway to powwow and once again attempt to make decisions for their frail females and children. Stevie wanted to knock some skulls together, to demand what in the hell was malfunctioning in their testosterone-addled brains to make them think that no one without a dangling appendage got a vote. Instead, she turned to her mama and declared, "Fort Benning is either gone or full of the dipshits who bombed and shot up civilian targets. We are not going there."
Grimy face exhausted and overall done, Mama sighed, "There's safety in numbers."
"There's safety in not being a dumbass," countered Stevie. "Besides, if this group splits, it'll split with numbers on our side."
It would be Stevie plus Sophia and Mama plus Gavin and Hazel. Bruno was not to be discounted, of course. Michonne and Andre were likely to come along, if only for Michonne's sense of loyalty to the person who'd saved her kid and distaste for other options. Andrea and Amy could go either way, but Andrea had been three shades past totally fed up with misogynistic leadership even before they left the quarry. The Dixons might strike out on their own, but there was a more than decent chance that they'd also prefer numbers over solo survival; in such a case, she'd get bonus points for rescuing Merle as well as not being a cop as well as not being the cop who'd left him in need of rescuing.
Dale, Jacqui, Jim, T-Dog, and Glenn were the wildcards. However, Dale would almost certainly stick with Andrea and Amy, and with him came the RV (though Stevie had plans to procure more and better vehicles in the near future). Jacqui also wasn't fond of her taste of male leadership, though the presence of Merle in either group might send her to the other. Ditto for T-Dog, though he was also likely to follow Jacqui. Jim could barely conjure the energy to continue living and would probably follow the larger group or wander off to die alone or purposely get himself killed at the first opportunity. Glenn had a weird hero-worship thing for Rick but was also likely to stick with the larger group.
Dr. Jenner was in Stevie's custody, and she had every intention of putting him back in zipcuffs if he tried to leave. She also had every intention of finding a lab to stuff him into, so he'd probably be fine once he was back in his element.
Regardless, Team Stevie was fixing to be at least thirteen people, while Team Throuple would be exceedingly lucky to end up with seven. Granted, Team Stevie would get most of the children (Sophia, Gavin, Hazel, and Andre), but her team would probably also include the only doctor, the two best hunters, the sword-wielding bad-ass, the ginormous fluffy walker alarm, the RV, and most if not all of the supplies she'd schemed to loot from the CDC.
No one needed to be a genius to do that math.
The men returned, minus T-Dog on watch, and settled down to sleep away their time in yet another well-rotted massacre.
In the interest of not starting drama in a place that did not allow loud voices—on threat of actual death—Stevie did as well. She put Sophia, Gavin, and Hazel between herself and the far wall and relaxed into the steady warmth of Bruno at her back. Even while he was sprawled and snoring, she knew that there was nowhere safer.
xxXxx
Stevie missed the internet. She'd never been one for social media—completely unable to conjure nearly enough interest in other people's pathetic lives or ignorant opinions or asinine stunts to devote more than a few minutes for anything that wasn't related to dogs or dog training—but losing instant access to the entirety of the world's accumulated literature and media and overall knowledge was something she would never get over. It was practically a lobotomy to her and the rest of the remaining population.
Case in point: Her very sensible plan was to find a lab for Jenner—preferably a cutting-edge private one with excellent security and thus some quality fencing, but she'd settle for a high school or college with an above-average science department. Unfortunately, Georgia wasn't exactly flush with either option, and the one blood-soaked copy of the Yellow Pages scrounged from the nursing home hadn't been any help. She'd been prevented from searching elsewhere for listings, and unless she had a concrete place to go, Mama was insistent about tagging along to Fort Benning and had pulled Stevie aside to "parent" to that effect.
"Maybe we'll spot something along the way," the woman murmured, unable to make eye contact and knowing full well that they wouldn't, that the caravan was going to be deliberately routed through mostly rural areas and farmland for the majority of the trip.
"Maybe the throuple peer-pressured you into agreeing with their shit plan," Stevie snarked, kicking herself for sleeping and thus apparently leaving her mother vulnerable to shameless manipulators. "Fine, Carol," the teen sighed, disappointed but totally unsurprised, vindictive enough to enjoy the wince caused by the means of address. "I love you too much to abandon you, so you get what you want, as usual, even if it involves attaching yourself to the nearest toxic male authority figure to the obvious detriment of both your kids. Congratulations." Stevie had never met a line she wouldn't gleefully cross. Knowing that she'd gone too far didn't stop her from adding, "I just hope that no one dies because you still have no spine."
"You can't talk to me like that," Mama answered without any hint of conviction. "I'm your mother."
The statement threatened to send Stevie into a fit of rage.
Ed's bullshit had always been unacceptable but hadn't always been extreme. He'd gotten to that point over years of having his minor crimes excused by his fawning wife. Only physical abuse that threatened to leave visible or lasting marks had prompted Carol to put herself between the bastard and her kids, but the far more frequent occasions of "lesser" physical abuse—a slap, a shove, a too-tight grab—as well as mental and emotional abuse—insults and gaslighting and screamed tirades and other such goodies—had been ignored or covered up or outright blamed on Stevie.
"Daddy works hard, and he's real tired, honey. You shouldn't have bothered him."
"Why did you have to provoke him? You know what he's like."
"You're just clumsy."
"You need to mind your manners."
"Good girls stay quiet and do what they're told."
"Don't be so sensitive."
"Don't be dramatic."
"Don't be ungrateful."
"If anybody asks, you tell 'em you fell. Ok, baby? Promise me."
And despite all basic logic and basic common sense and basic human decency revealing to even toddler!Stevie that what was happening was not ok, Carol's end-all trump card to shut down any argument had always been the same:
"I'm your mother."
Like she deserved the title when she was in full doormat mode.
Even after years of therapy, even after years of tentative truce between them and better behavior from both sides, they still repeatedly ended up in that exact situation: unreasonable expectations of blind obedience versus stubborn opposition to each bad idea and flimsy excuse. And every time Stevie was forced to pick between grudgingly going along with Carol's poor life choices and extracting herself and her sister from the toxic dynamic for good… well, Stevie couldn't bring herself to actually take the latter step. If she'd been on her own, she probably would've run away long ago, definitely before she reached the point of having to ensure that Ed went to prison for a laundry list of felonies (only a few of which she'd actually framed him for, the scumbag). But with Sophia to take care of, Stevie hadn't been able to justify leaving the devil she knew and his enabling wifey for the uncertainty of life on the streets.
The apocalypse had made the decision both easier and harder. If she did leave Carol behind, Stevie wouldn't have to contend with trying to secure housing and employment as an obvious minor. She could continue to loot to her heart's content and would never have to answer to any government agency. However, she now had not only Sophia but also Gavin and Hazel to take care of, and the teen knew that she'd be unable to guard them from human dangers all on her own. No matter how badass she was, her medical condition made her a liability. Hell, even with "safety in numbers," they faced the very real threat of assault and exploitation and death. Sure, Stevie could call her mama's bluff and march off with probably a good chunk of the group at her back, but then she'd have to justify herself to Sophia. And after blatantly kidnapping Jenner for his own good, Stevie would have to answer why they couldn't do the same for Carol (and probably Carl).
The answer—Mama's had too many chances for me to care anymore (and Carl's parents and their boyfriend are sharing a dying brain cell and thus prone to irrational violence)—definitely wouldn't go over well.
Scoffing loudly, resenting the hell out of pretty much everything at the moment, Stevie snapped, "Why not? It's not like you're gonna do anything about it."
Of course, Rick and Dale chose that opportunity to insert themselves in the conversation, rushing over as Carol began to sob. Rick did his cop thing to separate them and deescalate, turning Carol over to be cooed at by Lori while he and Dale, sporting so disappointed in you expressions, rounded on Stevie.
"Don't speak to me," she snarled at Rick, suddenly so mad she was practically blinded by it, "Not until you have a damn good excuse for losing track of a live grenade, you utter shit-wit!"
He looked shocked by her vitriol but didn't manage a response before she stomped off with Bruno to calm down and try to decide which vehicle to ride in.
Shane's jeep had died on the way to the nursing home, and the church van had been deemed far too gas hungry. There had been noise about ditching the Humvee they'd snatched from the CDC, but despite only four seats (up to seven if some kids squeezed in and sat on laps), it still held a lot of supplies that no one felt like reorganizing at the moment. (And Stevie was going to throw hands if anyone tried to take another Humvee from her.) Additionally, the Dixons were contributing a motorcycle (one seat, maybe two if Merle would tolerate a pillion passenger) and a truck (three seats plus space in the bed), and Michonne had her sleek black Mercedes SUV (five seats, maybe up to eight if, again, some squeezing and lap-sitting occurred). With the RV also available, that was more than enough to transport their group of twenty-one people (plus one bestest doggo), but some passengers might not be particularly comfortable. It wouldn't be enough seatbelts, but traffic accidents were the least of anyone's worries.
Further vehicle cuts might be necessary in the near future, but the group was good for the moment—once again thanks to Stevie's forethought in bellowing at idiots until they did what she demanded, in that case rushing back to the military checkpoint to grab fuel cans before they got wasted in the imminent explosion.
It probably hadn't been necessary for said bellowing to include, "Ass, gas, or grass! No one rides for free!" But Merle and surprisingly Daryl had laughed loudly and openly at the terrible joke.
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I hope this didn't come across as shitting on victims of domestic violence. However, the POV is Stevie's, and Stevie is an occasionally angsty teen who still resents getting screwed over by her mother's choice of partner and subsequent behavior. I have much sympathy for adult DV victims, but at the end of the day, they are adults. When they're ready to leave, they can do so legally. Kids don't have that luxury. Anyway, surprise, Jim is there. I didn't have any plan for him; I just figured that not killing off Amy changed his trajectory enough that he didn't get bit in the chaos of the attack. And if it wasn't clear in the last chapter, Jacqui didn't stay to get blown up. Stevie interrupted Jenner before he could start offering the metaphorical Kool-Aid to anyone but her. Plus, she schemed to have Jenner knocked out and carried out, which made others far less likely to attempt fiery euthanasia. Also, I revealed Bruno's breed. I couldn't find any pictures of what said combination might entail, so I guess it's not common. But he's my imaginary doggo, and he can look like and do whatever I want. Let me know what you think.