Chapter 13 – Repress, Repress, Repress

A nap in the bed of Daryl's pickup had Stevie feeling somewhat better, at least more willing to keep a civil tongue at the next stop, which occurred sooner than anyone liked thanks to a pileup and the general shitty-ness of Dale's RV.

The silver-lining was that the pileup appeared untouched by other scavengers. As the person who'd been doing all of the car scavenging back at the quarry, Stevie was uniquely qualified and equipped to mine the chaos as well as teach others how to do so in a safe and efficient manner. The group was pretty well-stocked after the CDC but not nearly as much as she'd wanted them to be, what with Sheriff Brain Damage blowing up some of the haul. Regardless, given the size of the group, they weren't so well-stocked that passing up easily accessible loot was an option, no matter what squeamish stupidity Lori had to bleat on the subject.

Stevie had to poke through the loaded bed a bit to retrieve her little fold up wagon, which had been a godsend for hauling around her finds as well as various gear that was helpful in doing said finding, but by the time she located it and set it up and got herself and Bruno properly attired, most of the group had clustered around the RV and were berating Jenner, who had finally progressed from staring blankly at nothing to staring blankly at the potential lynch mob, who had finally progressed from despair to outrage.

As Stevie had previously announced, the doc was on a seventy-two-hour hold following his unrepentant attempt to do harm to himself and others. She took his blankness as mingled shock and grief at still being alive after he'd spent so long planning to go out with an admittedly epic bang; he certainly wasn't in any frame of mind to be reasoned with or successfully chastised. The adults, however, had decided to take offense at said blankness. And, yeah, the man was an unsettling creep and may have done or said something to deserve the renewed ire, but yelling at a psych patient wasn't a productive activity. Also, Stevie had put him in her custody. That meant he was her problem and under her protection. (After she'd scolded Ranger Rick for his poor treatment of Merle, anything less would be pure hypocrisy.)

So, the teen and her dog easily shouldered their way through the throng of angry morons and placed herself and her big beastie between said morons and the actual golden goose that was a real medical doctor at the end of the world.

Flashing a mean smile, the teen declared, "Unless you guys wanna help me take his shoelaces, fuck off."

There was a collective silence at her audacity and absurdity.

Or maybe the surprise was at her outfit. She'd always removed it before returning to camp, so the only one who'd seen her in even some of the grungy, mismatched pieces was Glenn. But she'd always heard him coming from far enough away to be mostly stripped back down to normal clothes before his stolen car of the day had rolled up, not for any reason other than that the outfit was hot and a bit awkward, that she was glad to have it but gladder to get it off.

The Kevlar vests on herself and Bruno were probably overkill and definitely too much for the weather but surprisingly more comfortable than other options she'd tested (mostly various leather and denim jackets and chest protection for sports that would likely never be played again). Her steel-toed boots and Bruno's dog booties were the bane of their existences but absolutely necessary for guarding against shards of glass and rusty metal as well as burns from the hot asphalt and—mostly—scratches and bites from geeks lying in wait and belly-crawling on the road. Snake gaiters had been difficult to find and difficult to adapt for Bruno's much different ankles, but teen and dog both wore them without complaint. Thick leather welding gloves went up past her elbows. She had yet to score head, face, or neck protection that worked for Bruno, but for herself, she had what had once been someone's paintball helmet, complete with neon-splattered camo pattern and clear full-face shield. She'd tried some leather biker chaps, but they'd surprisingly been too squeaky, the noisiest part of the ensemble and thus ditched early on; she had settled for the thickest denim jeans she could get her hands on, which were slowly phasing out flimsier options in her limited end-of-the-world wardrobe. And a walker onesie or maybe a walker poncho (wancho?) would probably be added at some point, at least in reserve, but she hadn't yet had the chance. Her typical hockey stick with screwdriver attachment completed the look.

When the crowd's anger seemed to have been sufficiently distracted (like redirecting a toddler tantrum with euphemistically raspberry-flavored fart noises), Stevie whirled on Jenner and firmly declared, "I'm considering this an attempt at suicide by angry mob and restarting your psych hold. So, behave, or I really will revoke your shoelace privileges."

The pale man's obvious affront was the most emotion she'd seen out of him and could've almost been considered a good sign, but then his face smoothed over once again. It wasn't the blankness of before, however; it was sheer stubborn self-destruction. "You don't understand," he intoned. "There's no point to any of this-" his arms jerked in a parody of a grand gesture "-this struggle to keep existing. Humanity is doomed, and nothing anyone can do will change that." He switched his gaze from her to the mob and, clearly thinking he had his glorious suicide by said mob in the bag or could insight said mob into a mass suicide, announced, "We're all infected."

"Yeah, I know," Stevie deadpanned, casually stealing his big moment, hopefully fast enough to stop or at least delay any emotional overreactions from the group at large. "VI was chatty, and the knowledge actually solved a few mysteries."

"W-What does that mean?" Lori shrilled, horrified expression betraying the fact that she understood perfectly but (for once) wanted to be wrong.

Instead of allowing Jenner to go on, Stevie shrugged and declared, "It means you don't have to get bit to turn into a geek. You just have to die."

It meant that the government and military's insane decision to napalm Atlanta (and probably many other major cities) did nothing but make the dire situation worse, killing a lot of perfectly healthy civilians to add to the army of the dead. It meant that the fall of Michonne's refugee center (and probably many others) had likely been the result of a single death—in her case, probably the death of the cancer patient who'd needed the medicine Michonne had been out to search for. It meant that the group should be handcuffing Dale to his steering wheel at night, just in case the old man croaked in his sleep. It meant that knifing the corpse would have to become the most sacred funeral rite of their brave new world. It meant that from the second any and every dead body with an intact cerebellum could get up and bite, humanity had been royally screwed.

In that moment, however, it didn't mean much. The group was still stuck out in the open with limited supplies and a busted RV, and if they wanted to improve their current lot, everybody needed to pull their weight to alleviate those unfavorable developments.

"It means," Stevie drawled, "That the only difference between now and a minute ago is y'all knowing this a little before I was gonna tell you anyway. Our goal is still to not get ourselves or each other killed, right?" She got no nods or sounds of agreement, but the array of stunned and horrified faces didn't veer into panic or rage or imminent violence. "Right," the teen blithely confirmed. "So, whatever feelings you have on the subject, repress that shit. No one's got time for it. Get busy living, or get busy dying."

Glenn spluttered out a loud laugh. Well, kind of half-laugh, half-sob, but it wasn't quite worthy of her Times I've Made a Grown Man Cry tally. Not even for a partial point. "Shawshank?" he giggled a bit hysterically. "Really?"

With another too-wide grin, Stevie agreed, "Really. Now, scavengers with me. Mechanics with Jim. Kiddos and lookouts up top with Dale. Anyone who doesn't help doesn't eat." She turned to raise an eyebrow at Jenner, who looked baffled even as she pointed her hockey stick at him and added, "In seventy-two hours, if you still wanna die, I'll personally stab a screwdriver through your skull. I just don't think it's a decision you should make when you haven't encountered sunlight and human interaction in weeks. There's a reason prisons deny those as punishment."

She was trying to keep that in mind and not be too annoyed at the doctor, but it really did figure that the asshole was an Ed. She had the worst luck with Eds.

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Anytime I watch that scene when Andrea is bitching at Dale about taking her gun, I always think, Bitch, you're lucky you still have shoelaces.

Somehow, in this fic, Andrea is not yet the most obnoxious and idiotic character. But don't worry. There's still time.