Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The revolver gleams in your hand.

You toy with it, turning it this way and that, as if examining it for the first time. You admire the sturdy metal; dirtied and slightly corroded from age. Your fingers graze the spiraled grooves of the rotating cylinder. It's lightweight but still feels heavy in your leaden fingers. Solid. Familiar. You don't have to imagine what it sounds like - the barrel has kissed the temples of both the living and the dead.

It was given to you by an old comrade. The only thing you have left to remember him by. That, and his old backpack.

You try not to think about that day. You try not to think about before. When you were still you - not whatever you are now. No light in your eyes, no lift in your lips. All bones and skin, whittled down by fear, thirst, and starvation. No different from those infected fuckers, as memories grow foggier by the day. Possessions reduced down to your weapons and whatever is left in your knapsack, the straps haphazardly held together by safety pins.

Just mindless ambling, searching for your next meal.

No destination. Only escape. Escape what's behind you. Pray it's not in front of you, too.

Desperation keeps you going. It ropes around your ankles, dragging one foot forward after the other. You let it puppeteer you - after all, it's what's kept you alive so far.

For the first time, you wonder if it's worth it anymore.

Hunger is a hard pit in your stomach. A constant gnawing. It's been days since you've had anything substantial. Wildlife evades the sharp tips of your arrows, your lack of energy making your reaction time slow and your body sluggish. You forage for spruce tips, but they taste like ash on your tongue. Water is the only thing you're not short on - the forest is blanketed in plush, white snow. But that still requires melting and boiling it, so most of your water has come from a slush-ridden creek, lapping it up like a dog who needed to be put out of its misery.

The bark of a dead conifer bites into your spine as you slump against it, not even caring that the snow is bleeding into your trousers. You tilt your head upwards, eyes trained on the bloated gray clouds.

Freezing to death doesn't sound so bad - in fact, it sounds kind of peaceful. Cozy warmth once the hypothermia sets in. A bed of evergreen pine beneath you. Snowflakes feathering your skin like a goose-down blanket. Blue, chapped lips parting for their last breath. A soft farewell from this shit world (Heaven likely won't welcome you, but at least it's warm in Hell).

Besides, you have nothing left.

The camp you'd called home for the past few years was dismantled in just one afternoon. A gray mist on the horizon, moving fast, descending on your village like a toxic cloud. It was a horde of Infected, coming down from the mountains, clamoring over one another to appease the parasite festering in their brains.

You can hear it now. How eager they were to feast on fresh blood. Buzzing like cicadas. Louder, louder.

A terrible, terrible sound.

Evacuation plans turned null as those dead bastards trampled your fields of crops, killing the livestock before consuming the members of your community. Women, children - death had no preference. Some turned. Some were eaten alive, reduced to bones and mush, their remains trampled under the boots of those attempting to flee.

A chorus of gunfire combatted the pack of infected. Bullets whipped through the air, shredding through their bodies, putting them down for good. Your community rallied. Fought back.

But there were just too many of them. A powerful tidal wave, flurries of limbs and teeth and blood, destroying everything in its path.

You should've been with them. You abandoned your post.

You let the people who saved you die.

You were a coward.

But you lived.

That was weeks ago. Maybe months. Shit, time doesn't exist for you anymore. Days bleed into nights. You're always awake.

And for the first time, you feel the weight of your loneliness.

You look back down at the gun in your lap.

The forest is quiet.

The tips of your fingers throb red.

You pop the cylinder open.

One bullet.

Snow starts falling from the sky.

"Maybe a bullet would make a nice last meal." You mumble, the words floating in small, icy breaths.

Could you do it?

Brain numb, you sit there until the snow stops.

Then you close the chamber. The hammer remains disengaged.

You won't end your life.

You're still human.

Your instinct is to survive.

Movement.

You hear it before you see it - the crunch of snow and the crackle of loose twigs.

It's too deliberate to be the Infected. Too heavy to be a squirrel or a rabbit. A small deer, maybe?

Arrow notched, your fingers curl loosely around the bowstring as you navigate the forest brush with predator-silent steps. The prospect of fresh meat has adrenaline simmering under your skin, but you need to be careful. You can't afford to spook the animal off. The way your trousers hang so loosely from your hipbones is a reminder of that.

The familiar babble of water over stone. You're near the creek.

Shadowed by dense pine trees, you see him before he sees you.

A man.

Young or old, you can't tell. His skin is gray and dirty. Dark hair matted under a knit cap. Eye bags blackened with exhaustion. He stands by the water's edge, desperately trying to steady his breath as he reaches for something in his back pocket.

Your eyes drift, following his line of sight.

A girl. A child.

An oversized parka covers most of her body, a pale face poking out the fur-lined hood. A strand of hair bounces against her rosied cheek as she kneels on the ground. Shifting your gaze, you spot a dead rabbit, caught in a homemade snare. The carcass lays limp in the snow as she resets the trap, eyes trained downward.

She doesn't see the man.

He takes a step closer.

A chill flutters down your spine. You recognize the crazed desperation in his eyes - it nearly mirrors your own. A man ready to do whatever is necessary to appease the agony that devours him from the inside out. The kind of hunger that would eagerly take the life of another person, even a child, if it meant he had a full belly.

He raises his gun.

You move first.

Stepping around the tree, you draw back the bowstring and let an arrow fly. Though it's not where you aimed, the tip burrows into his shoulder.

His body jolts from the shot and he screams in pain. The girl leaps to her feet like a spooked fawn.

It all happens so fast.

Bloodshot eyes snap in your direction. The man runs at you like a snarling beast, and you nearly drop your bow. You didn't expect him to charge you like this. Fear makes you clumsy as you fumble for another arrow, but you're too slow to notch it. He crosses the space between you in seconds and tackles you to the ground.

The impact steals your breath. Your bow falls from your hands, lost in the snow. A shadow hovers over you, blocking your view of the gray sky. Heavy weight presses down on you, pinning you to the ground. Chapped lips curl upward, revealing a set of yellowed teeth.

"You fucking bitch!" The man's voice cracks, maybe the first words he's said in days. His fingers curl around your neck.

Panic rockets through your veins. You start thrashing, wriggling, kicking beneath him - anything to get him off of you. He doesn't budge. Even emaciated, his weight is still far too heavy for you.

You don't know what to do. Adrenaline muddies your thoughts. A weapon. You need a weapon. Maybe you could find one of your arrows, or a loose branch in the underbrush. Stab it in his eye. You blindly dig into the snowy ground around you but you don't feel a fucking thing.

The grip around your neck tightens - apparently, you're not good enough to be killed with his gun. You claw at his hands, lungs burning. You open your mouth but no air comes.

Nine seconds until you're unconscious.

30 seconds until you're dead.

Blindly, your hand shoots forward and latches onto the arrow in his shoulder. Twisting the wood, a poppy of blood blooms across his shirt. The man howls and rocks back on his heels, loosening his grip on your neck. Breathless, you clamor backwards while fumbling for the revolver in your pocket.

Reddened eyes narrow on you. He growls, lunging for you again.

A gunshot fires.

The man's head whips back. A mist of red hangs in the air.

He falls on his back, blood leaking onto the snow.

Your gun is shakily pointed at his body, but the chamber remains disengaged.

It wasn't your bullet that killed him.

"Dad, wait-!"

Before you can question who the fuck dad is, something hard catches the back of your skull, and your vision cracks white.

Then nothing.

Outbreak Day was years ago.

Five, to be exact.

It happened while you were visiting your brother. He and his family were nestled in a suburban neighborhood, just north of Atlanta, surrounded by cedar fences and neatly trimmed hedges. You spent that weekend sprawled on sun-warm grass, sipping iced tea, and chasing lightning bugs with your nephew.

Those first few days of the outbreak passed in an eye blink.

You remember watching the violence unfold on the TV. Soldiers donning gas masks, armed with military-grade weapons you'd only ever seen in movies. Sprays of blood on hazmat tents. Flamethrowers spitting fire like great beasts, setting both the living and dead ablaze. Bodies in polyethylene bags until the death toll became too great, leaving the corpses to rot in the empty streets instead.

Not long after, you lost all connection. No phones. No internet. No way for you to get back home.

The neighbor's old garage radio was able to pick up alerts between the static, the broadcaster's words coming out of the crackly speaker in fragments.

"...mysterious infection..."

"...hospitals overrun..."

"...death toll rising..."

"...latest city to be placed under martial law."

Contaminated flour. That's how it initially spread.

A mutated fungus that possessed you, invading the brain and eating up all rational thought. Turned you into a flesh-eating monster. Words out of a horror story, pressed and printed into reality.

Panic grew quicker than the contagion. Some of the neighbors began falling ill - from regular sickness or from infection, you had no idea. One evening, a handful of people gathered at the end street of the cudelsac, speaking in hushed murmurs.

"They're evacuating the neighborhoods," One of them had said. "Bringing people into the city. They're setting up quarantine zones."

"Fuck that," Your brother scoffed, his eyes wild. "You see what was happening on TV? Atlanta's done. We're going north."

"Think about this," You pulled him to the side, your voice low. "If the government has set up safety zones, that might be the best place for your family."

Paranoia had already sunk deep into your brother. Something he picked up during his time overseas. A military skin he never shed.

His gaze hardened.

"I'll decide what's best for my family."

So you each packed a bag. Piled into their shiny SUV. Left everything behind.

You drove for hours. Your nephew cried in his car seat, while your brother's wife wept silently in the front. Where are we going? Where are we going? Your brother wouldn't answer. Just kept his eyes pinned on the road in front of him. Knuckles taut on the wheel. Refusing your offer to drive for a couple hours.

You'd been lucky to find that community. A small town surrounded by groves and gray-green mountains. Founded and forged by people who'd also been distrustful of the government, willing to bring in others. Self-sufficient. Safe.

Safe, until it wasn't.

First your sister-in-law.

Then your nephew.

Your brother.

Dead.

You may as well have died that day, too.

Your head is pounding.

A throbbing ache that builds with each passing second, pulsing with the beating of your heart. It feels like your skull is too large for your head, reminding you of those wine-from-a-box hangovers from your university years but God - this is so much worse. Groaning quietly, you screw your eyes shut tighter, like it might relieve the tension.

A voice floats in your ear - at least, you think it's a voice. It's soft and unthreatening and you think you might still be suspended in some kind of dream.

Another mumble. You can't understand what they're saying.

"Where-?"

The question fizzles from your lips. Your mouth is dry.

"It's OK. You're safe."

The headache blooms fully as you open your eyes, the pain sparking at your temples. The first thing you see are log walls, vaulting into the ceiling above you. A fire crackles from the brick hearth, casting a warm light on the wood paneling.

You're laying on a couch, coat and boots discarded. One of the cushion's springs pokes the knobs of your spine.

Two people are in the room. You recognize one - the girl by the creek. She's much smaller without her coat - lean, but still healthy. Gangly limbs tell you she's in her early teens. She peers at you with curious blue eyes, observing you from head to toe.

The second person, a man (a large man), looms over you. The rusted end of his rifle is pointed at your nose. Instinctly, you reach for your gun, but you've been stripped clean of your possessions. You freeze when he releases the trigger guard. You feel it click in your bones.

"Sit up." He commands, a threat limning his deep voice. "Slow."

Your heart races wildly as you nod, slowly lifting yourself into an upright position, maintaining eye contact as you do.

There's a resemblance between the two, you see it now. "Dad," you remember her calling him before he knocked you out. A father and his daughter.

He's older than you, maybe in his early forties. He has craggy features - a strong jaw, chiseled like stone, thick facial hair peppered with gray. A tousle of wavy, dark hair. Beaten and weathered, like most survivors. He cradles the rifle expertly, letting you know he's well-acquinated with the weapon. A line creases his forehead while a mild intensity brews beneath his dark brown eyes. Sizing you up.

He looks like he could kill you with his bare hands.

"Who are you?"

His accent. Warm and southern, like Woodford whiskey.

"Answer me."

It feels like a trick question. You know he doesn't give a shit about your name. He wants to know if you're a threat. You offer your name anyways. It's all you have.

He narrows his eyes, unsatisfied with your response.

"I'm nobody, alright? I-I'm just passing through."

"You alone?"

You nod.

"Where you comin' from?"

"Georgia." You breathe. "Northern Georgia. Had a camp in the Blue Ridge mountains. It got overrun."

Silence builds between you two as he sits on the information, comparing it to the theories that brew in his mind. The rifle is still fixed between your eyes.

"That man. Was he in your camp?"

You shake your head.

"No, no. I didn't know him."

He stares at you hard, weighing the truth in your words. Finally, he lowers the rifle, and you take a shuddered breath. The girl continues to observe you from a distance, worrying at her bottom lip.

"How long have you been out there on your own?" She asks, ignoring the look of quiet exasperation on her father's face.

"I don't know." Your voice is already exhausted from overuse.

"No one else from your camp made it?"

You don't answer this time.

The girl looks at her father, eyes wide, like they're communicating in a language you don't understand. His nostrils flare, lips pressed into a thin line as he subtly shakes his head, answering a question she didn't ask out loud.

He turns to face you again, nodding to the front door.

"Your bag's outside. Take it and go."

It takes you a beat to process.

Take it... And go? No, no. You can't go.

They have a cabin - a home. Warmth, food, supplies, stability - things you haven't had in weeks. Things you thought you'd never have again.

"And where am I supposed to go?" You mumble, a question for both him and yourself.

"Don't care."

His response is quick and sharp; stings like bee's venom. Something inside of you stirs. A spark of anger in a landscape of ash. The feeling climbs up your throat but you push it down.

"There's nothing left for me out there."

You watch him, waiting for any indication of compassion. He could be a man of mercy.

Instead, the silence grows.

Reality sets in, freezing the blood in your veins. You're going to be sent back out on your own. And for what? A few more days of pure hell before you eventually collapse, curl up in the snow like a dead beetle, praying for a swift death?

You can't live much longer like this.

You're desperate enough to beg.

"Please," You croak. "You don't know what it's like, all on your own. I've lost and I've suffered. More than you can imagine. Don't make me go back out there."

His gaze hardens, unaffected by your pleas. You scramble for a reason to let you stay, your voice high and desperate.

"I can help you. I'm a decent shot with my bow-"

"No."

That single syllable feels like a low punch to your gut. You briefly consider guilting him with tears, but you're probably too dehydrated to cry. You know there's no point, anyways. He's made up his mind.

Rage ignites in your veins. Fuck it. You have nothing to lose.

"Why bring me back at all if you're just gonna kick me out?" You ask between clenched teeth. "I won't last the week."

"Not my problem."

His nonchalance pisses you off further.

"You son of a bitch. Then just kill me. Take that gun and shoot me in the head because I'm as good as dead if I go back out there."

He looks as if he's weighing your offer. Debating whether or not he wants to stain his couch with your blood. You search for a flicker of humanity in those dark eyes but you find none - just another man who can't decide if you're worth wasting a bullet.

His daughter speaks up, shattering the tension.

"Dad, come on. Can't we-?"

"Don't," His voice is firm but less severe when he speaks to her.

"But-"

"No. She's not stayin'."

"Why not?" There's a bit of fire in her eyes, combatting the softness in her voice. "Look at her. She's harmless."

Look at her. A rush of embarrassment slides into your belly. You know she's not trying to shame you. Even without looking in a mirror, you know you're far from a pretty sight. Weeks without a bath. Hair overgrown and greasy. Dirt and grime trapped under your fingernails. A corpse if not for the blood that still runs red under your skin.

Cheeks blazing, you occupy yourself with the ripped hem of your shirt, pretending like they're not speaking about you like you're some kind of stray dog.

"Nobody's harmless."

"But she's-"

"What do I tell you?"

The girl's mouth snaps shut and her eyes grow distant, as if recounting some kind of lesson. A dry log crackles in the fireplace.

You press the heel of your hands into your eyes. The headache has waned but now defeat sits heavy in your bones. What are you going to do now?

Can you really blame them for not wanting you to stick around? You'd just be another mouth to feed. A depletion of their resources. Another liability. This world was relentless and unforgiving. How many times would you have to go through this until you'd finally understand?

The girl speaks up again.

"She saved me." She murmurs quietly.

"Sarah..." The man's face visibly softens, only slightly.

"That man in the woods- I didn't see him. He was going to kill me. She drew him away from me, and that's why he was attacking her."

Her confession hangs thick in the air.

"We don't owe her a damn thing." He eventually responds, his voice guarded.

"I owe her my life. I'd be dead if she didn't stop him."

You see him tense, broad shoulders taut as his grip tightens on the rifle. His gaze locks on you again, and you feel yourself inadvertently shrink back into the cushions. For a moment, you think he's going to turn the gun on you again. He looks angry. Something like disgust broils in his eyes, but there's something else there...

Regret?

"We can help her, dad."

He releases a sigh and shoulders the rifle. Looking at his daughter, he nods towards the kitchen.

"Get her somethin' to eat."

The girl beams and practically skips out of the room. A moment later, you can hear wood cabinets opening and closing, utensils shuffling in their drawers.

Alone with the man, the air feels overly warm and bloated. You find yourself wondering what he's done to survive. Lives he's taken. Maybe you should be afraid, but if he really wanted to, he'd have killed you alongside that man. Left your body to be gnawed on by critters.

You suppose you should say something.

"Thank y-"

"Let's get somethin' straight," He interrupts, closing the distance between you in three quick steps. He lowers himself to your level, close enough for you to count the flecks of gray in his beard. "You make one move - one move, or do anything that puts my daughter in harm's way, I will not hesitate to put you down."

All the oxygen has leaked out of your body. You can't find your voice.

His glare flashes crimson.

"Got it?"

You nod shakily.

"Y-yes."

Something deadly leaks out from those dark eyes. He's taken lives. He's done worse.

And he'd do it again.

Suddenly, you wonder if you really would be better off on your own.

Dinner is a can of kidney beans and rabbit.

Seated at the round farmhouse table, you feel like a feral cat brought into the house. You struggle to not scarf it all down and force yourself to use the fork they provided. You're also given fresh water in a chipped ceramic mug, which you gulp down greedily.

The girl, who'd introduced herself as Sarah, watches you with rapt interest, like hunger is a foreign thing to her. It annoys you at first; makes your skin itch. But then a tender-soaked realization - a father who made sure his daughter never knew starvation. It softens the ice under your skin.

Meanwhile, Joel sits statue-still between you two, making sure you catch a glimpse of the hunting knife holstered at his hip.

You try your best to ignore him and take in the home as you eat.

The simple floor plan contains a living room with a fireplace, a kitchen, and a back hallway that you assume leads to the bedrooms. It's modestly furnished; the chairs, tables, and cabinets assembled from reclaimed wood. There's no electricity, so the space is littered with candles and oil lanterns. Wildlife paintings occupy empty spaces on the wall.

You look for family portraits, or any indication that this cabin belongs to them. You find none.

Sarah is curious about you. Elbows resting on the table, she asks you questions. A lot of questions. "Where were you on Outbreak Day? Who was with you? What was your camp like? How many people lived there? Were there children there-?" And Christ, you forget kids ask so many goddamn questions. You answer them patiently, occasionally sneaking a glance at her father, fearful that one wrong word might set him off.

But you may as well be a ghost in his chair. He doesn't glance at you once.

When you're finished, Sarah takes your plate to wash it in the sink basin. Unsure what to do with yourself, you remain seated at the table, listening to the gentle clatter of ceramic and Sarah's soft voice, humming a tune that scratches a vague memory in the back corner of your mind. Your eyelids creep downward. A full belly has your body warm with exhaustion.

"Come on," Your spine straightens at the sound of Joel's voice. He gestures for you to stand, eyes holding a quiet threat.

You follow him out of the kitchen and into the darkened hallway. He pushes open the first door on the right. A lantern sits on the porcelain vanity, casting the small bathroom in a flickering, amber light. The porcelain dips into a basin with a metal faucet, the spigots rusted with age. Above it, a stained mirror, cracked at the edges. A wooden stool is placed in the clawfoot tub, along with a bucket of water and a hand towel.

"Wash up."

Your eyes lift. Your lips part to say thank you-

"You smell like shit."

Mouth snapping shut, you blush with embarrassment. An apology nearly at the tip of your tongue, you bite it down. You know you have no reason to be ashamed. After weeks of hard survival, were you expected to come out smelling like roses?

Asshole, you think, but offer a silent nod of your head.

Thankfully, Joel leaves you, closing the door behind him. The mirror beckons you but you ignore it and carefully undress yourself, peeling off layers of soiled and tattered clothing. You lay them on the tiled flooring before stepping into the tub.

The water is ice cold. Goosebumps prickle your skin as you drench the cloth before wringing it out, dragging it across the hollow dips and knobby curves of your body. This body... It's not one you recognize. Weary muscle on bone. Gaunt and scarred. Earth-stained. Blood-stained.

You gently but thoroughly wash away the grime and dirt, the water pooling gray at your feet before swirling down the drain. You repeat this process until your skin tingles, shivering in the cool air. Then you gather your hair and dunk it into the bucket, trying your best to finger-comb the clumpy strands.

Towel-drying yourself off, you dare a glimpse at the mirror.

You wish you didn't look. Haggard would be putting it nicely. You see features that weren't always so sharp. Eyes cagey yet sunken from too many sleepless nights. Fresh bruises stain the curve of your neck, and you can practically feel the man's fingers press down on your windpipe at the memory.

Grimacing, you look away.

Someone knocks.

It's Sarah.

She stands sheepishly in the hallway when you open the door, towel wrapped tight around your body. She offers you something clean to wear, which you accept gratefully. Then she bids you a soft goodnight, leaving you to dress in private.

The button-up is oversized and the sweatpants are moth-chewed but it's a decided improvement over your grime-stained clothes. Bringing the sleeve of the flannel up to your nose, you inhale. Detergent and pine.

The living room is dark when you step out of the bathroom. Joel sits at the table, using the faint light of a lantern to dissemble and clean his handgun.

You nearly snort at his lack of subtlety.

"Thanks for the clothes."

His eyes shift over to you. Brows pull downward as his gaze fixes on the flannel, lingering there. Your body flushes. It must be his shirt.

He doesn't acknowledge what you said. He stands from the table.

"You're sleeping in the garage."

The sky is coal black when you step outside. You follow him across the yard, boots crunching in the snow as you make your way to the detached garage. The hardwood exterior matches the cabin, the structure large enough for one vehicle. The interior is emptied, save an old workbench and a wall lined with rusted yard tools. A furled sleeping bag, along with your pack and bow, sit in the middle of the concrete floor.

"And my gun?"

When you're met with stony silence, you turn around to face him. His broad form looms over yours, the lantern casting a dimmed light between you. Odd shadows pool in the hollows of his face. His eyes are like black marbles in the night.

Panic swells in your chest. Your mouth goes dry.

"I need my gun."

He narrows his eyes.

"You're safe in here."

"Am I?" You certainly don't feel safe. What's to stop him from coming back in the middle of the night and smothering you quietly in your sleep? You don't trust him, not entirely. You're desperate for companionship, but not all of your survival instincts have been totally washed away.

Though you were being somewhat sardonic, a response from Joel would've been nice. His silence certainly doesn't quell the gnarl of anxiety in your belly.

"Why don't you just get rid of me now?" You ask quietly, heart rabbiting in your chest as you do. "You could just lie to her. Tell her I took off."

His face is unreadable, his mouth a tight line.

"Not a bad idea."

"So do it. I know you don't want me here. Snap my neck. Just be done with it already."

The air is charged with tension. You clench your fists, nails carving into your palm, muscles taut as you prepare for a fatal blow to the head. You've given him permission. He just needs to pull the proverbial (or actual) trigger.

He holds your gaze until it flickers downward, just below your chin. At first, you wonder if he's thinking about actually reaching out and strangling you, but there's no threat in his eyes.

He's staring at the ring of bruising around your neck.

Finally, he looks away, setting the lantern on the workbench.

"Remember what I said."

Then he leaves.

Chapter Text

A noise gouges your subconscious.

Something in the real world, nudging you awake, like a tap on the shoulder. You want to ignore it, but even half-asleep, your instincts flare. Eyes still closed, the world around you slowly comes into focus as you hold your breath, listening, but it's quiet again. Had you imagined it?

Then you hear the noise again. It's human-like. Familiar.

Guttural, almost like someone is trying to clear their throat.

Clicking.

You feel it in your spine. Hear it in all your inky dark dreams.

A blind predator searching for their prey.

There's an Infected in the garage.

Your eyes snap open.

Blindly, you reach for the knife under your pack, the blade popping open as you slash it out in front of you. While you expect it to sink into cordycep-flesh, it slices air.

More clicking - no, not clicking. Clucking.

You blink, fully awake now.

It's a fucking chicken.

Brown-colored feathers and orange eyes, the bird strides the garage like he owns it, talons scraping the concrete floor as it moves. Then it pauses, beady eyes finding your knife, and you swear you see a glimmer of: I'd like to see you fucking try, before resuming its stroll.

"What the-?"

"Cluck Norris, are you in here-?"

Sarah's head pokes through the open door, her voice dropping off at the sight of you: eyes wide, chest heaving, switchblade held defensively in front of you.

"Oh, sorry. Hope he didn't scare you."

The tips of your ears burn. Scare you? It's a chicken, not a wolverine. Before you can defend your diminishing honor, she steps into the garage and scoops the bird into her arms, gently stroking the top of its tiny head with her hand. The chicken seems content to be held there.

With a shaky breath, you stow your knife back into your pocket.

"Did you say... Cluck Norris?"

"Broke out of the coop this morning." She huffs, like a parent chastising a misbehaving child. "Does it all the time. He's an escape artist."

Your brain is still on pause.

"You guys have... chickens?"

"Eight of 'em," She says proudly. "I'm surprised they didn't wake you. They can be pretty loud in the morning."

Gently rubbing the sleep from your throbbing eyes, you take in the bleary, morning light that filters through the dusted window.

You don't even really remember falling asleep. Most of your night was spent buried in the sleeping bag, trying to shield yourself from the winter air that leaked through the old hardwood.

The quiet in this garage was unfamiliar. Body coiled tight like a wire, you could hear every creak and rustle. You listened, holding your breath as you did. Heart racing. Muscles clenched. Waiting, waiting. Eventually, you must've lost the fight against your own body, succumbing to a bottomless, gray rest.

Kicking the sleeping bag off your legs, you carefully move your weary limbs. Testing, stretching - bones achy and tender. The floor is uncomfortable but you're not about to complain. You can't remember the last time your brain permitted more than an hour's rest.

"What're you reading?"

Oh, Sarah's still in the garage.

Confused, you follow her line of sight. She's staring at your book; worn, dog-eared, and practically falling apart from its spine, laying on the floor beside your sleeping bag.

You'd been tempted to open it last night, using the faint light of the lantern to read in the dark. A comfort you haven't indulged in since you were at your old camp.

"Oh," You reach for it, flashing her the cover. "Fellowship of the Ring."

"Fellowship of the... What?" She takes a step closer, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. Cluck Norris squirms in her arms and she puts him back on the ground.

"Fellowship of the Ring. You ever heard of Lord of the Rings?"

She shakes her head and moves closer.

"They're fantasy novels. They made them into movies," You pause, considering her age . "How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"So you were pretty young when they came out."

"What's it about?"

With a willingness that surprises you, you hand her the book.

Though discolored and warped, those pages hold that last bit of you; your last vestiges of humanity. It's your only possession that isn't necessary for survival, a precious relic to pray on when humanity slips away from you. When the memory of a warm meal and unbound laughter seems faraway.

Carefully turning the book over in her hands, she plops down on the floor next to you.

Anxiety curls in your gut. You are not comfortable with this. Being alone with her. You would never harm her, but you know her father would look for any excuse to get rid of you.

"Your dad know you're out here?" You ask as you casually nudge your bow away.

"Mmhm." She responds distractedly, her eyes scanning the back cover of the book.

You don't believe her.

"Where is he?"

"Chopping wood."

Listening carefully, you can hear the dull thud of a blade and the splintering of wood in the distance.

"I've got some books in my room. Stuff my dad's found when he goes out on runs." She starts paging through the book. "I've read them all at least three times."

"You can read it," You nod to the book in her hands. "If you want."

Her eyes light up.

"Really?"

You shrug.

"Sure. Gotta warn you, though. I don't have the second or third book, and you're go-"

"Sarah."

Your blood freezes.

Joel appears under the doorway, his broad frame blocking the sunlight. One hand grips the axe, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. Sweat builds below his hairline from exertion, chest expanding and contracting as he catches his breath.

"Oh, hey dad." She greets him nonchalantly while you fight to not piss your pants.

"What did we talk about?"

About you, no doubt. You shrink back against the wall.

"Cluck Norris broke into the garage. I was just grabbing him." She closes the book, showing him the cover. "Check it out! I haven't read this one."

He frowns at her.

"Why you takin' her stuff? You got plenty of books."

"I've read them all, like, a billion times." She rolls her eyes in that defiant, adolescent way, nearly teasing a smile from your lips.

"Didn't know that," Joel mutters under his breath, almost like he's embarrassed. "I can get 'ya some more."

"It's fine. She said I could read it."

He works his jaw with his free hand, rubbing the stubble. A bead of sweat rolls down your spine. Did you cross a line? Oh, God, you hate this.

"Come back inside. Now."

"Okay, okay." Rising to her feet, she scoops the chicken into her arms, book clutched in her free hand. She pauses in front of the door, flashing you an easy smile.

"Thanks for the book."

Not trusting your voice, you offer a quick nod.

"You should come inside for breakfast."

She parts after the open invite, slipping out the door.

Joel hovers under the doorway, leveling a disapproving glare at you. Nervously, you bite the inside of your cheek, wondering if you should bother trying to explain yourself. It's not like you asked her to come in here and talk to you. You understand why he's so paranoid, but you wouldn't have risked your neck for Sarah just to harm her later. Why can't he see that?

A lecture seems imminent, but instead he promptly turns on his heel and exits the garage. You listen to the soft crunch of snow before letting out a slow breath, settling your nerves.

When the cabin door shuts, you fish out your pack from behind you and unzip the pocket. You start shuffling through your scarce belongings, brushing past the small steel pot you use for boiling water, a lighter, and a pair of men's wool socks. The tube of toothpaste sits at the bottom.

Squeezing out a pea-size glob onto your pinky, you carefully rub the paste along your gums and over the ridges of your teeth. You're almost embarrassed to think what you'd trade for your old electric toothbrush. When you're done, you step outside and spit out the residue.

In the daylight, you take in the property.

The one-story cabin is surrounded by a plot of hand, fenced off by salvaged wood, and boarded by miles of forest. Winter strips the trees of their green but the cabin seems to blend in seamlessly, merging with the overgrown, browned foliage. Rows of hibernating stalks, likely vegetables, are planted in a rectangle of wired fencing, some covered in a cloth to shield them from the frost and snow. The makeshift chicken coop is assembled from wood pallets and wire, roofed with a slab of sheetmetal. A ring of stones form a fire pit in the front yard, and some distance away, you can see the tree stump where Joel was chopping firewood. Next to the garage, you see a large, blue tarp, not quite long enough to cover the wheels of the pickup truck that's parked beneath it.

Something gleams in the distance, and you notice a string of emptied cans and bottles, fastened between two tree trunks. A makeshift alarm system.

You wonder where the hell you are.

Gaze shifting back to the cabin, you weigh Sarah's offer. You should come inside for breakfast. Breakfast. You hadn't had something as normal as breakfast in weeks. Lately, it was just... Meal.

Despite the invitation, doubt keeps your feet planted in the snow. You're an outsider. A weed in their garden. Something that doesn't belong in their world.

The last thing you want to be is a burden. Though they both seem well-fed, you know that winter typically calls for restrictions. Back at your camp, it meant lean portions. Scarce wildlife and frozen lakes meant living off caches of canned goods and preservatives until the ice thawed.

Your stomach rumbles.

One meal - no, breakfast.

You'd find your own dinner, you decide.

You hover in front of the door for a moment, debating whether or not you should knock, before pushing it open.

The inside looks less menacing in the morning. The inky shadows are gone, cast out by the sunlight in the windows and the warmth from the fireplace. A cast iron grate sits over the open flame, no doubt where breakfast was cooked. A folded quilt strewn over the back of the couch. A board game, packed away in a colorful box, sitting on the coffee table. The smell of frying oil wafts in the air.

Joel and Sarah sit at the farmhouse table, tin forks clanking against enamel bowls as they take slow bites of their food. She's enamored with the book, using one hand to keep the cover open as she scans the front pages. Joel watches with a frown, like he's debating whether or not to scold her for reading at the table.

It reminds you of quiet evenings with your father, when your mother used to work late. You weren't allowed to watch TV at the dinner table, but he let you when it was just the two of you. You remember the low voice of television newscasters and game show hosts filling in the silence as you ate.

It hurts to think about.

You swallow the tightness in your throat.

"Hey," Sarah greets you as you timidly take a seat where a third bowl has been set. Peering inside, you see eggs. Hot and fluffy, scrambled to perfection. Sprinkled with flakes of seasoning. Parsley, maybe?

Joel doesn't say anything. He sits stiffly to your right.

You pick up your fork and begin eating. You're only on your third bite when Sarah looks up from the book, oblivious to how tightly her father's jaw is clenched.

"So why is Biblo so much older than the other hobbits?"

"Do you have to read that at the table?" Joel speaks up before you can, exasperation liming his tone. Your shoulders reflexively curl forward, as if you're the one being reprimanded.

"Sorry," She mutters, closing the book and pushing it to the side. She stabs her fork into the bowl, lips downturned disapprovingly. Lifting the utensil, she stares at the skewered egg until it slides off the tine, plopping back into the bowl.

Joel watches her, grip tightening on his fork, like he's second-guessing whether or not he should've said anything.

It's subtle, but you notice it.

He clears his throat.

"What book is that anyways?"

"Lord of the Rings," Sarah answers him, straightening in her chair at his curiosity. "She said they made movies out of them when I was young. Did you go see them?"

"Yeah, I heard of 'em." He says dismissively before reaching for his mug.

Sarah's eyes dance back over to you.

"How old are you?"

You tell her.

"So Joel remains the resident old man."

"Ain't that old." He mumbles around the lip of the mug.

"Sorry, not old. Just ancient."

He chuffs. "Smartass. You should respect your elders."

"That's exactly something an old man would say."

They continue to banter as if you're not there. Sarah complains about an egg shell in her food. He tells her it's calcium. She laughs. He watches her, contentment in his gaze.

She's his whole world. You can see it in his eyes.

Gaze downward, you focus back on the food, savoring the last few bites. Then you use your thumb to swipe at the oily residue before sucking it from your finger.

When you're done, Sarah shows you which basin to wash your dishes in. She retreats to her room with the book while Joel remains at the table, sharpening one of his knives. You stand by the fireplace, boots shucked so you can warm your socks. The repetitive slice of steel against whetstone fills the silence.

You have a lot of questions.

Summoning courage, you approach Joel.

"Do you have a map?"

He pauses his sharpening. "Why?"

Does he have to act like everything you do is a plot to his demise?

"I'd like to know where we are."

You can tell he is silently questioning your motives but then he pushes himself up (taking the knife with him, of course) and disappears into one of the back rooms. He reemerges with a creased pamphlet. He smoothes it open and lays it flat on the table.

"Oauchita National Forest."

"Arkansas?" Your eyes trace an invisible line from Northern Georgia, trying to recount the sites and monuments you passed during your trek. A black dot is marked along the Ouachita River. Red X's are scrawled over nearby towns, to mark spots that are unsafe or already thoroughly scavenged, you don't know.

"I had no idea where to go. Just thought I'd try West." You mumble, mostly to yourself.

"How many Infected you run into?" He asks, his voice detached, but it's the least threatening he's sounded since your arrival.

"Not many. I tried to keep off the main roads. Away from big cities."

"Show me where they were."

Sighing, you briefly scan the map again before tapping your finger on two separate areas. One, south of Nashville. The other, at a crossing of the Mississippi River. They were small groups - no more than half a dozen, but far too many for you to take down on your own. You evaded them by moving quietly and keeping yourself out of sight.

He stares at the map thoughtfully. You wonder what your intel has revealed to him.

Your finger finds the red markings.

"Are these spots you've already checked?"

He doesn't answer.

"I meant what I said," You continue. "I can help."

He gives you a blank look.

"Can't even defend yourself."

Heat crawls up your neck, mouth threatening to twist into a scowl.

"Maybe not. But I'm small and I'm quick. I can scavenge. Get in and out fast. Are you running low on anything-?"

He snatches the map off the table, creases aligning as he folds it back into a tight square. He stuffs it into his back pocket.

"Just worry about yourself."

"Fine." You ground out, annoyed you even offered. "But I want my gun."

"What for?"

"I'm going out to hunt. I'd like to have it out there with me."

"No," He objects, voice rough. "Gun stays with me."

Your mouth drops open.

"What? But that's my gun."

"I don't need you recklessly firing it off, drawing every Infected for miles."

"But what if I need it? What if I run into somebody?"

"You're quick," He says mockingly. "Said so yourself."

A thousand insults are notched at your tongue, ready to fire. You could do it - submit to your anger. Call him a fucking asshole straight to his face. Maybe flip him the bird, too. But no, you can't piss him off. Not after he's granted you shelter, put food in your belly. 

Fucker. As much as you hate to admit it, you owe him. And you can't give him a reason to kick you out.

You clench your fists to quell the vile things you want to say to him, nails digging into your palms.

You call him an asshole in your head before stalking back outside.

Your hunt yields two squirrels.

The sun is low when you return to camp. The light filters through the groves of trees, painting the cabin a pleasant gold. Joel didn't surrender his map, but luckily the snow makes it easy to retrace your steps.

The critters bounce off your hip as you collect nearby branches, snapping them into more manageable sizes before assembling them in the outdoor pit. You light a small fire, the flames gobbling the fresh wood shavings you whittle with your knife. Then you scoop snow into your small pot, nestling it in the fire pit to melt.

While you wait for the sediment to boil, you sit yourself on a tree stump and skin your kills, soaking what remains of the daylight.

Working meticulously, you remove the head, feet, and tail, letting the tiny organs slump onto the snow at your feet. It's mindless work, something you've mastered; even without the sharp blade of a decent carving knife.

Closing your eyes, you can almost feel a warm hand closed over yours. Guiding the motion of your blade. Reminding you that the meat around the spine is more trouble than it's worth. His voice - Mark's voice floats into your ear, and your eyes flutter open.

Mark is dead.

He was a member of your camp. He found your settlement a couple years ago, having escaped the Dallas QZ. He collapsed at the front gates while you were on patrol, his skin cracked with dirt and blood while his fingers loosely grasped his combat knife; his last line of defense. Only when his eyes found yours did he allow himself to be pulled under, surrendering to unconsciousness.

He trusted you immediately.

"There was just something about you," He'd tell you later, sparking a hot blush across your cheeks.

"I think you were just desperate." You laughed softly. "You would've trusted a rattlesnake in your condition."

"No. It's in your eyes. You have kind eyes."

Thick-boned and capable, Mark was a natural survivalist - a man who spent his weekends hunting and fishing prior to the breakout. Once a week, he'd knock on your cottage door with a knot of freshly-caught fish, scales glimmering like jewels, and you'd pan fry them in a cast iron, showering the meat with fresh citrus and sprigs of rosemary. Then you'd talk between the single flame of a candle, exchanging pasts, the low light hiding your blush.

He was the one to alert you of the horde. Found you in the chaos. You try to retrieve the memory, but it's lost between blank slates - moments that occurred too quickly for you to process. A slew of words, fast and panicked. The hard press of his lips to your forehead. The cool touch of metal as he slides his revolver into your palm. His body merging with the panicked crowd.

Biles creeps up your throat.

Mark is dead.

Mark is dead.

Everyone is dead.

Panic kindles in your gut. Drums pound in your ears. You drop the knife, alarmed by the amount of blood on it. Hands quivering, you shove them under your thighs.

You look up at the sky, tears wetting your eyes. The sun is gone and in its wake, lazy streaks of pink and orange. You try to count the different shades, inhaling deeply through your nose to bring air back into your lungs.

"You're okay, you're okay." A mantra, uttered under your breath, to ease your panic.

You're okay. You're okay and you're alive.

And for now, that has to be enough.

Chapter Text

You've killed once before.

Flesh forgiving to the muzzle of a handgun. The split of a man's skull.

Not unfamiliar feelings. Not unfamiliar sounds.

It happened on a supply run, about a year ago. You'd been assigned with another member of your community - Gerald. Old, but still capable. Knew how to fire a gun. Built like a damn ox back in his younger days. Withering gray hair but soft brown eyes. A good man.

A seemingly abandoned home revealed itself to be the tomb of two Infected - a man and a woman.

For a time, you tried puzzling together what had happened to them - pancakes unknowingly served with contaminated flour? Or had they been bitten on the outside and wandered home together, pieces of them old selves, trapped within, yearning for something familiar?

For a while, their story mattered to you. You weren't sure why.

As you were sifting through the kitchen cabinets, a woman materialized under the doorway, still bearing too much semblance of a human if not for the smears of blood on its teeth and chin. Cordyceps sprouting from its skull. Clothes ripped to ribbons. The veins of its forehead throbbing with fury.

It screamed when it saw you, from delight or anger, you had no idea, and charged you in a flurry of limbs.

You rounded the kitchen island with a shriek, sidestepping a swipe of its arm. Adrenaline pumped through your veins. A weapon - you needed a weapon. Your eyes scanned the kitchen counter in a frenzy, looking for something to defend yourself with.

Heart hammering in your chest, you ripped the largest knife out of the butcher's block, the blade gleaming in the kitchen light. The dead woman was not phased by the weapon, and lunged for you again.

Pure instinct took over. The Infected woman latched onto the front of your shirt, and your arm gripping the knife shot upward, your eyes clenched shut.

The Infected woman stuttered, a death wheeze rattling in its chest. You crept an eye open.

The blade of your knife was buried deep in the soft flesh beneath its jaw, piercing its brain. Yellowed, bloodshot eyes stayed open as it slumped to the floor, bringing your knife down with it. Trembling, you stared down at it, wide-eyed, hands clammy and cold as you came down from your shock.

Nausea curled in your gut and you were certain you were about to vomit but commotion from the front of the house drew your attention. A gun fired off.

Your partner stood over the curled up corpse, limbs twitching from post-mortem tremors. His chest heaved, handgun lowered

"Fuck, are you okay-?" You rushed to his side, breathless.

His lips curled inward before he wordlessly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, his expression a mixture of regret and defeat.

Flesh gnarled. A bite mark, glowing red.

Dread filled your veins like ice, chilling you.

No. No, no, no.

Fingers twitching, your instinct had been to reach for his wound and rub it away, like it was just a marking or a smear of ink that could be undone. The fungus had already invaded his bloodstream; there was no way to milk his veins. You fight a rush of bile.

"W-we need to hurry and get you back," You stammered, a feverish panic taking over. The tips of your fingers felt numb, blood pooling there. "Maybe there's-"

"No," Gerald shakes his head. "I can't go back to camp."

Moisture crowded your eyes. Your lips wobbled.

"You... You can't stay here."

"No," He agreed, shaking his head. "I'm not turning into one of those things."

Before you knew what was happening, the cool metal of his handgun had been slipped into your palm. You looked down at it, confused, like it was a foreign object. Then your expression fell, paling at the implication.

"You can't ask that from me."

"I know it's not fair." He forced your fingers to curl over the firearm. It weighed like concrete. "But I'm sorry, girl. I can't do it. I need you to be strong for the both of us. Do you think you could do that for me? Please. Please do this for me."

His words coax you like you're a child, afraid of the dark.

You blinked back tears of frustration. Your mind conjured up all the ways you could've, no - should've prevented this. Everything had happened so fast.

You didn't remember pressing the muzzle to his forehead - he must've guided your hand there. Disengaged the safety. Forced your finger off the trigger guard. Your hands quaked. His voice hovered above a whisper, his last words, maybe - but you could barely hear him over the roar of your pulse.

Then you pulled the trigger.

A bullet cracking bone. A thud. A splash of vomit

A symphony of sounds sliced into your eardrum, and for a few days, that was all you could hear.

Nobody ever told you that it was your fault. Not even Gerald's wife, when meeting her tearful gaze and explaining what had happened felt so much worse than pulling the trigger.

It was a mercy. Gerald had been lucky you were there, you'd been told, so you could be strong when he couldn't. Someone to grant him mercy in a world wrought by brutality and suffering. A quick death - all anyone could hope for.

How ridiculous was that? Gerald would've been lucky if you'd saved his life, not taken it. You wished someone would tell you that - appease that unforgiving voice in the corner of your mind that craved damnation. It was only fair. You were alive and breathing and Gerald was not.

Mercy, you reminded yourself. Mercy is how you live with yourself.

And you'd do it again.

Doesn't mean you'll ever forget.

Something nudges your foot.

For a moment, you resist the pull to consciousness (it's probably just that stupid chicken again), savoring a dreamless rest. Too many of your nights are occupied by snarling creatures in the dark; of hands grabbing you out of nowhere, ripping at your clothes and flesh; of teeth snapping into bone. And the screams, the gunfire...

Your eyes creep open, ready to curse that chicken to oblivion.

A shadow looms over you.

You shriek, battling to free your hands from your sleeping bag.

"Get up."

It's Joel.

He stares down at you, face slightly pinched, like he's judging you for your poor survival instincts - how easily he was able to sneak up on you.

You blink away the sleep, his frame slowly coming into focus. He's dressed in jeans and a flannel, buttoned to the neck, similar to the one loaned to you, beneath a beaten utility jacket. He wears a backpack, the strap of a long-range rifle pulled tight across his chest.

"Jesus," You let out a slow breath, trying to calm your racing heart. Peering out the window, you see the sky is a pale shade of gray. Early morning. "What's going on?"

"I'm going out."

You arch a brow. What are you supposed to do with that information?

"Okay...?"

"You're comin' with."

You must've misheard him, your brain still fogged with sleep.

"What?"

"I said you're comin' with."

Your stomach dips.

"Why?"

He doesn't say why.

But you know why.

He doesn't trust you alone with Sarah.

Irritation simmers under your skin. If you wanted her dead, doesn't he realize you could've done so by now? The only thing you're guilty of is exposing her mind to the writings of J.R.R Tolkien (something you should be rewarded for, in your opinion).

You know arguing will get you nowhere.

"Well, where are we going?"

He sighs, impatient.

"Just get what you need and meet me outside."

He leaves.

"And good fucking morning to you, too..." You mutter bitterly under your breath, sitting up fully.

Cross-legged on your sleeping bag, you stare at your pack, contemplating what to bring with you. He said going out. Going out where, exactly? On a hunt? Scavenging? You hope you're venturing into some neighboring towns. You could really use some supplies. Clothes. A new backpack.

Upturning your bag, you empty the contents, letting them spill onto the floor in front of you.

Something clings on the concrete floor.

A coin?

No, upon closer inspection, you see it's attached to a silver chain.

A pendant.

You pick it up and examine the name that's carved into it.

Mark Duncan

002895

You flip it over. Your breath stills.

A firefly emblem.

Mark was... a Firefly?

He never mentioned it to you - though, you didn't know much about the Fireflies. You'd caught snippets over the radio, the government (or FEDRA, at that point) broadcasting their intention to bring an end to the militia resistance group at all costs. Regardless of the collateral that came with it.

So, if Mark was a Firefly, what happened to the rest of his group? He showed up to your camp, bloodied and alone. Did FEDRA kill them all? Was he the only one to escape?

Your stomach roils, filling with acid. You turn the pendant over again, your thumb brushing over his name.

You remember hearing that crackly voice on the radio, hijacking the signal. A woman, breaking through the static.

"When you're lost in the darkness, look for the light. Believe in the Fireflies."

But you'd given up. Hope extinguished.

"Hurry up," Joel's gruff voice breaks up your thoughts, muffled from the other side of the closed door.

"Coming," You say hurriedly, stuffing the pendant into your pocket.

You throw on your coat and near-empty bag, loading your arrows in the front pocket before grabbing your bow. Using both hands, you lazily twist your hair into a french braid to keep it out of your face, bumping open the door with your hip as you're securing the ends with rubber bands. Joel's dark gaze shifts over to you.

He doesn't say anything. He looks down at your boots, gaze trailing upward until it lands on the braids that fall over your shoulder, his mouth a slant.

Your hands fall back down to your sides. Your skin feels like it's burning under your clothes.

Finally, he looks away, hooking his thumb under the strap of his rifle.

"Ready?"

"Ready." You echo in a dry tone, finding it difficult to mask your early-morning irritation. He gives you a look in return, one that reads: I ain't too happy about this either, before setting off into the woods.

You follow after him.

The hike is quiet.

You trail Joel, following his footprints in the shallow snow. You pass trees you had marked while on your hunts; notches whittled with your knife so you wouldn't get lost, but it doesn't take long for you to enter unfamiliar territory.

He seems to know where he's going. The map is tucked in his back pocket, but he seldom takes it out. The Ouachita river runs to your left, and Joel makes sure the sun stays on his right shoulder.

A squirrel flickers in your peripheral. Your finger twitches for your bow, but you see Joel makes no move to take down the animal. You deduct that you're not out here to hunt - besides, his steps are too loud and careless to sneak up on anything in your vicinity.

So you walk for miles, listening to the rush of the stream and the chittering of birds up in the trees. A gentle breeze lifts loose snow in the air like floating pollen. The sunlight occasionally peaks out from beneath the cloud cover.

The silence between you two isn't terribly awkward. You're pretty sure he's decided not to kill you. And he must trust you to at least not return the favor, because he keeps his back to you as he walks. Still, it feels like you're trailing a goddamn grizzly bear - one wrong move and your throat gets ripped out.

A few days have passed since you arrived at their cabin. You still feel like an intruder, so you spend most of your time outside by the campfire or in the garage. You try to keep to yourself but Sarah makes it difficult. She frequently comes outside to talk to you, mostly about the book you loaned her.

Discussing something as simple as a book's plot feels odd. The first time it happened, you actually felt physically sick, like your body was rejecting this indulgence. Why were you wasting your time talking about a book? You should be skinning your dinner. Boiling water. Making fortifications. Only exerting energy on the habits that have shaped your survival. Retreating into yourself, you quietly told Sarah you weren't feeling well, and once she left, you spent the rest of the evening trying to whittle branches into new arrows.

Maybe she sensed your discomfort. Her next visit came late the following day. She hovered under the garage doorway, uncertain, before stepping inside. Something was tucked under her arm.

"Here," She handed you a lumpy pillow, her expression apologetic. "I know it's not much, but I bet it's better than sleeping on your backpack."

Your instinct was to reject this kindness.

"Oh, no. I'm okay."

She gave you a look, almost like she hadn't expected you to turn her offer away.

"It was just sitting in the closet. You should use it."

So you took it from her. After weeks of sleeping on your pack, you knew this would feel overbearingly soft, like a marshmallow cradling your head. You felt guilty for not appreciating it more.

"Thank you."

She crossed her arms over her chest, shifting, like she didn't know what to do with her hands now that they were unoccupied. You stared down at the pillow, absently plucking a loose feather between the threads of the pillowcase.

"I asked my dad if you could sleep on the couch, but he said no."

"That's alright. It's not so bad out here. This will be nice to have."

She gnawed on her lip, debating whether she wanted to speak the words that weighed heavy on her mind.

"He doesn't trust you."

The proclamation didn't surprise you. Didn't even hurt your feelings. You nodded, understanding.

"Your dad is smart."

"I trust you," She blurted, and your eyes widened slightly. Her omission - those words, had an invisible weight, like a heavy boot, pressing down on your chest. You rubbed at your sternum, like the feeling could be dislodged.

"You should be careful with who you trust." You told her, eyes averted.

She shook her head, refusing your advice.

"I trust you."

Mark's words rang in your head.

"There was just something about you..."

You puked up your dinner that night.

She continues to visit you, seemingly comfortable in your presence, even when your fingers are dripping with game blood. You feel yourself unwinding a little more each time. You enjoy listening to her thoughts. The animation in her voice. The gentle smile when she recites one of her favorite lines. The slight screw of her nose when she talks about her least favorite characters.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" She burst into the garage the other morning, wide eyes finding you sitting on top of your sleeping bag, absently whittling your knife into a slab of wood. Confused, you watched her cross the space before she stopped in front of you. Before you could ask, she extended her arm outward, waving a book in your face.

"That's how it ends?" Her voice went up an octave, twisted with disbelief and exasperation. "The Fellowship breaks up? Please, please, please tell me you have the next book."

You chuckled, taking the book from her. "Unfortunately, I don't. Tried to warn you."

She dramatically collapsed beside you, throwing the back of her hand over her eyes.

"I'm going to die if you don't tell me what happens right now."

You denied her with a shake of your head and a playful "nope," prompting her to mumble something about begging her father to find the next book.

She's a funny girl; bright, witty.

(An antithesis to her large, grumpy shadow.)

It saddens you. Sarah deserves a normal life - one where she can discuss books with her classmates and have friends her own age and eat some goddamn Lucky Charms for breakfast and watch Saturday morning cartoons.

You exhale. A puff of vapor hangs in the winter air. There's no space in your brain to imagine such things. Sarah's not your concern.

The clouds have broken up and the sun is high over your head when Joel permits a five minute rest. You plop onto an overturned tree trunk while he pulls out the map. His brows pull downward as he observes the tangle of lines. Your eyes scan rows of pine trees, looking for spruce tips to forage. You left the cabin so abruptly you hadn't even considered breakfast...

"Here."

You're interrupted mid-thought when a protein bar is shoved in front of your nose, the wrapper crinkling in Joel's firm grip. You examine the label. Peanut butter.

You blink.

"Oh,"

You're flustered by the gesture. Hesitantly, you take the bar and hold it like it's a bomb that might detonate. Is this some kind of test? Your eyes flicker upward, looking for trickery. You find none. His lips are set in a terse line.

"Thank you-?"

"I don't need you passin' out on me." He grumbles before moving away from you again.

"Sure you didn't poison it?" You force a chuckle, but your joke is met with rigid silence.

Tough crowd.

Ripping open the wrapper, your teeth sink into the bar. You nearly choke on it, the taste of peanut butter overwhelming you. Fucking peanut butter. Even your old camp didn't have peanut butter. A luxury of the pre-outbreak world. You wonder what else he has stored away, because all you've been shown is salty vegetables in a can.

You want to shove it down your throat but you make yourself chew slowly, savoring it.

"So you gonna tell me what we're doing out here?" You ask between bites.

Were you expecting a response? Because you don't get one. You fight the roll of your eyes.

Sighing through your nose, you try another approach.

"Listen - I don't wanna get blindsided. If I know what we're walking into, I'll be a lot less likely to get in your way if something goes sideways."

His jaw clenches with a pulse of irritation, but his shoulder muscles loosen, relenting. He knows you're right. Finally, something gets through to him.

Snow crunches beneath his boots as he moves close to you again, unfurling the map and laying it flat on the tree trunk.

He smells like warm campfire smoke and pine.

"This school here," His finger taps against a small black dot on the map. "Early in the outbreak, the military would set up camps in public buildings. Most were abandoned when they were ordered back into the quarantine zones. Reckon they left some supplies."

Your lips purse with contemplation.

"You think they'd set up in an elementary school?"

He nods.

"Central location, good for storage. Large enough to hold a couple squads."

"How do you know this stuff?"

"Just do." He responds stiffly before stuffing the map back into his pocket.

Worth a try, you think.

"What are we looking for?"

"Ammo, ideally."

"Why? Are you out?"

"No," He narrows his eyes. "Just runnin' low."

"Okay, okay." He acts as if you'll plot his demise based on this information. You're more than certain he doesn't need a firearm to wring you like an old cloth.

Your eyes drift to the rifle on his back - it's not one you've seen before. Mark taught you a bit about firearms, but this one looks older, certainly not military-grade like you're used to seeing. It's large - looks powerful enough to pierce through armor. You wonder what other weapons he's got concealed on him.

"Hurry up." He snaps, scowl deepening. "Don't wanna be out here after dark."

You nod and swallow your last bite, mostly unchewed. Wincing, it goes down like a rock.

He's even managed to spoil peanut butter for you.

The two of you set off, emerging from the dense woods and hiking across an open field of brown grass. A stone bridge crosses the river and spits you out into a residential road. You walk parallel to it, using the bordering trees to remain out of sight.

Joel eventually finds the school.

The large, one-story building sits on a plot of pavement surrounded by tall grasses. Thick veins of dormant ivy (not cordyceps, you note) creep up the brick walls. A couple windows are smashed open; gaping mouths with jagged teeth. The abandoned playground sits behind the building. Its tangle of colorful, climbing structures looks out of place in the wintry, gray landscape.

He was right - the military had been here at some point. There are disassembled tents and collapsed bunkers in the parking lot. A combat vehicle, thoroughly stripped of its parts, sits vacant. Paper and other debris is scattered on the pavement, trampled and flattened.

And then something you don't expect.

Horses. Two of them. Tails thwipping as they stand idle by the main entryway. One has white spotted fur and the other a dark amber, almost appearing like velvet. Smoke steadily lifts from the fire flickering in an aluminum barrel.

Somebody else is here.

Joel holds your gaze for a moment. The message is communicated silently, and for the first time, it feels like you are on the same page. This is dangerous. Military base or not, this is not worth the risk.

"We do this quietly."

Head whipping to the side, you stare at him with equal parts horror and incredulity. Okay, you're not on the same page - you're not even reading the same book.

"Hold on - we're still gonna go in there?"

"I wanna see what they have." He murmurs, narrowed gaze darting between the multiple entry points.

"Are you crazy?" You hiss. "Who knows how many people they got in there."

"Came all this way. Not leavin' without at least takin' a closer look."

Why does he need bullets so goddamn bad?  You can't imagine there are that many threats in the middle of the woods that necessitate Joel to be armed to the teeth.

You shake your head.

"This is reckless."

"Said you're quick." You grit your teeth at his mocking tone. "Time to prove it."

You scoff quietly before trying to steel yourself with a slow breath.

While Joel seems comfortable with this covert operation, this is not something you've done before. Previous supply runs sometimes forced you to navigate ruined homes and buildings with stealth. To take down the occasional Infected. But with your old camp being so isolated, you never really had to deal with other people.

Combat is not something you're trained in. Pure instinct drove an arrow into that man's shoulder - not you. When he attacked, instinct melted away; leaving raw fear in its wake. You didn't know what to do. You completely froze.

And the thought of freely holding a knife to another person's throat makes you ill.

Your grip tightens on your bow.

"And what happens if we run into someone? We're just gonna kill 'em for a couple bullets?"

"Nobody's gotta die."

You give him a pointed look.

"Right, we'll just rob them, then."

"It's them or us."

Us.

You know he doesn't mean you. He means him and Sarah. Still, it sparks a pathetic, involuntary tingle down your spine. Like you're part of some team.

Fuck.

You secure the bow over your shoulder.

He shifts on the balls of his feet.

"Follow my lead."

The two of you emerge from the field of tall grass, maneuvering over flattened debris. Joel keeps himself low (he's surprisingly nimble for his size), and you do your best to mimic his movements, scanning the area as you do.

You're on high alert, preparing yourself for a military caravan or horde of Infected to appear at any moment. It doesn't help that the wind has picked up, your peripheral catching every swaying tree branch and ripple in the tall grass. The tension has you wound so tight that you're afraid you might actually blackout. Or vomit. Or both.

He pauses behind the cover of an abandoned vehicle. Glancing over his shoulder, he shoots you a glare.

"Quiet."

Fuck, you must be breathing too loud. Pressing your fist to your mouth, you force yourself to inhale and exhale steadily through your nose.

Without checking on you, Joel turns and starts moving again, crossing the cracked pavement until you reach the east side of the brick building. Pressed flat against the wall, he peers into the first-floor window, hand twitching for the knife at his belt as he does.

He grunts out a single syllable.

"S' clear."

He hoists himself inside and you follow, managing to avoid the jagged edges of the broken window as you do.

The abandoned classroom sits frozen in time. The tiny desks and chairs are still arranged in neat rows. Smears of handwritten words remain on the chalkboard. Wind-blown snow dusts the vinyl flooring. Colorful posters and drawings tacked on the wall occasionally flutter with the stray breeze.

It's eerie as hell.

Joel sweeps the room with his rifle while you conduct your own search, peeking inside desks, looking for anything that might be useful. Most are filled with crayons, plastic rulers, and notebooks that have already been thoroughly doodled on. You manage to find one pair of scissors that isn't child-proof and a roll of masking tape. You stuff them into your bag.

Joel's moving for the door when you spot a backpack hanging on the coatrack.

It's pink, the nylon material covered in glitter. Maybe you could muddy it a bit, find something to dye the material darker so it isn't so damn colorful. A beaded charm hangs from one of the zippers, and you try not to imagine the tiny hands that fastened it together.

Fuck - you don't have space in your head for thoughts like that.

Removing the bag from the hook, you inspect it up close. It's practically new - the material is still starched. You recognize the cartoon character printed on the front pocket.

Hello Kitty.

Well, not like you can afford to be picky.

"This'll do." You mutter quietly as you kneel on the floor, unloading your old bag from your shoulders.

Joel hovers above you, shouldering his rifle.

"Seriously?"

You shrug.

"Backpack's a backpack."

Ignoring his quiet exasperation, you pack everything into the new bag as quickly as possible, transferring the arrows and newly-acquired supplies. Then you reach into your pockets to empty them, and in your rush, you forget that the Firefly pendant is in there, too. It clangs on the floor, landing in front of Joel's boots.

You reach for it but stop yourself.

For some reason, it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room.

You look up.

Joel's looking down at you, body deathly still. Eyes mired in shadow.

Blood chills in your veins.

In a flash, his hand is on your throat.

Forced to your feet, the wall groans as you're slammed up against it, his large frame pinning you there. A vice on your neck, you claw at his wrist, eyes wild as you battle for breath.

The look in his eyes alone - cold and lethal; it chokes the air out of you.

"Who are you?" He growls dangerously.

"I'm - I'm not-!" You rasp, wriggling in his grip. He shifts his stance, forearm pressed against your throat, his body flush against yours. He shoves one of his thighs between your legs to immobilize you (as if a weak kick to his shin would be enough to actually free yourself). His other hand hovers over his holstered knife. A threat.

"Who sent you, huh?" He snarls, voice building like a storm. "Answer me."

A mix of confusion and terror wells up inside of you. What is he talking about? Who sent you? Who does he think you are? Is this pure paranoia? Or something else?

What kind of enemies does Joel have?

His muscles tense, applying more pressure, pressing against your windpipe, and you begin to panic. You're positive he can feel how quickly your heart is beating in your chest. Tears build in the corners of your eyes as you struggle for gulps of air.

"I, I-"

"-been gone long enough already."

You both freeze.

A voice, muted, drifting closer. Somewhere in the hallway, echoing like a wandering ghost. Beams of dual flashlights shine under the crack of the doorway, growing brighter.

"...Always pulls this shit... 'll be back soon."

People are here.

Joel's arm leaves your neck and his hand clamps over your mouth, silencing your shuddered gasp. Your eyes meet his, and there's something else leveled in his steely glare. A command and a threat.

Be quiet. Or else.

You nod against his hand to signal that you understand. Slowly, he lowers his arm and frees his knife from his holster. Pressing himself up against the wall, Joel silently moves towards the closed door and raises the blade defensively, body taut with anticipation. Numb, frozen - you watch, eyes wide.

The voices are closer now.

"If they're not back by morning, I'm takin' a horse out."

"Quit gettin' your panties in a fuckin' knot. You'll be reunited with Jonah and the others soon enough."

Others? How many others? And when was soon enough?

"Shut the fuck up, man."

They're outside the classroom door. A tremble moves through your limbs.

Joel's breath pauses. A predator ready to pounce.

You clench your eyes shut, shielding yourself from bloodshed you didn't ask for.

The door doesn't open.

The voices continue to carry down the hallway, fainter and fainter, until your ears are ringing with silence again. Joel lowers the knife and you let out a ragged breath, body sagging back against the wall with relief.

But he doesn't waste a second. He moves to the door, hand wrapping around the knob.

He's not heading for the exit.

You watch him, jaw slackening with disbelief.

"You're still gonna-?"

"Yes."

You huff an incredulous breath. You try to make sense of what just happened, since Joel apparently has short-term memory loss. Did he forget he was ready to hold a knife to your throat minutes ago? The threat in his gaze has lessened but still seems to simmer; to be revisited at a later time. He doesn't trust you, but he trusts these men less.

You want to ask him about it - about the Firefly pendant. Why it set him off. But before you can, he's opening the door, just wide enough for him to slip through. He hovers there briefly; listening, looking for movement, before his shadow melts into the dark of the hallway.

Fucking, gun-crazed maniac.

You debate going back out the window. Leaving his ass. Using the river's path and faint footprints in the snow, you could probably find your way to the cabin. But you know Joel will definitely kill you if you go back to Sarah without him.

You curse under your breath. If you're going to do this, you both need to be on the same page. Slipping through the door, you quietly call his name.

"Hey, I think-"

Your voice halts.

Joel's not there.

Your head whips to either side of you, but both ends of the dimmed hallway are empty.

You're alone.

Motherfucker.

Chapter Text

The inside of the school is dark and damp.

Without a flashlight, you rely on the pale light that filters weakly through the closed classroom doors. Water drips through cracks in the ceiling, splashing onto the linoleum flooring. Metal lockers stretch along the winding hallways, rusted and cold.

You keep close to the walls as you move, navigating the building with light and quick footsteps. Occasionally, you'll pause and peek into one of the emptied classrooms, looking for the flannel-clad asshole that abandoned you.

You try to cling onto that anger, because it's the only thing keeping you from shitting your pants.

Was this Joel's plan all along? To lead you far away from the cabin, only to abandon you when it was convenient for him? Does he know these men? Is he working with them? No - you quickly abandon the thought. He would've alerted them when you arrived.

So, what the fuck then? Did he believe you were that much of a liability?

Embarrassment lances your anger. Fine, you're not some kind of super-soldier assassin, but you're certainly not a goddamn liability. You're determined to prove the bastard wrong. You'll be the one to find that fucking ammo and he'll be the one to grovel at your feet, begging for your forgiveness.

"Okay," You whisper, an attempt to ground yourself. "Ammo, ammo."

You reach the end of the hallway and come to a windowless door. You see the word Storage printed on the nameplate. Holding your breath, you listen for movement within before quietly opening the door and slipping inside.

Squinting in the dark, you take quick inventory of the space.

Shoes, dozens of them, are piled in the corner of the room. An assortment of backpacks lines the back walls, each one thoroughly worn and emptied. Some are stained red, dyed from their wearer's blood. You find random objects like wrist watches, gold jewelry, wallets, and keychains stored in one of the shelve's bins. No ammo.

Who collected all of this? Those men? Or the military?

A rush of nausea swells in your belly. You ignore it and move on.

You pass a few more emptied classrooms, moving soundlessly, until a silhouette takes shape at the end of the hallway.

Adrenaline rushes through your veins. You quickly pivot and dart into the nearest room, the cafeteria, ensuring the door does not slam shut behind you.

Crouched in the shadows, you hold your pocketknife to your chest and count.

You count and listen.

You reach 60 and nobody has come after you.

Breathe. In, out.

You're okay.

Refocus.

Stowing your knife, you carefully pass rows of bench tables, moving towards the kitchen. You nudge the swinging aluminum door open.

The smell. God, the smell.

Like rancid tar, in your throat.

A dead body lies on a utility cart, limbs haphazardly removed from its torso. A blue tarp is spread out beneath it, but there's no blood. You move closer. There's a slash of red below his chin. His throat slit. Pale flesh, bloated. Two aprons hang from hooks on the wall, spattered with blood.

They're not... Are they...?

Oh, Christ.

The floor comes into view and you realize you're bent over, hands on your knees, fighting the sickness that crawls up your throat.

This is not good. You need to get the fuck out of here.

Heart in your throat, you dash out of the kitchen and make your way back down the hallway. Lockers blur on either side of you. Escape, escape. You just need to find an exit. A door. A broken window.

Somebody yells.

You halt, pressing yourself up against the wall. You try to listen over the rush of blood in your ears.

Another scream; fused with rage, abruptly silenced. Then a crash.

The commotion - it's nearby. Contained within one of the classrooms. A man had been the one screaming, no doubt.

You can't tell if it's Joel.

You don't care if it's Joel.

Shouldn't have left me behind, you son a bitch, you think cruelly as you continue forward, taking a right at the crux of the hallway. The school's double-door entrance comes into view. Greedily, you move quicker, lungs aching for freedom and fresh air.

Then you stop again.

You think of the kid.

Sarah.

You imagine wide, questioning eyes, pinning you the moment you step through the door on your own. A small, wavering voice, asking: Where's Joel? Where's my dad?

A little girl without her father.

Alone in this world.

Because of you.

How could you ever look her in the eye again?

Fuck.

Gritting your teeth, you race back down the hallway, withdrawing your pocketknife, slightly concealed under your long sleeve. This is a bad idea. God, this is a bad fucking idea.

You run, aimless, listening for movement. There's a crash at the end of the hallway; a chair screeching against epoxy. This way. He's in one of the classrooms. Hurry, hurry. Find him so you can fucking leave.

Bursting into the room, you find Joel on the floor. He's wrestling another man, the two snarling like animals. The man's face has already taken a beating - his nose is crooked and bloody, and a pink welt blooms below his left eye. A third body is crumpled on the floor, dead or unconscious, you can't tell.

Frozen under the doorway, you watch them fight for control of the rifle. Joel's elbow cracks against the man's jaw. He curses loudly, lips sputtering, before gathering bloody saliva and spitting in Joel's face. He recoils, and the man takes the opening, throwing him onto his back.

He clamors on top of Joel and presses the rifle against his neck, cutting off his airway. Joel's legs kick out uselessly beneath him, trying to push the rifle from his throat. He chokes for air.

Tucked into the man's waistband, you see the handle of a gun.

The man doesn't see you.

Joel finally sees you. His gaze briefly flickers to yours, widening a fraction.

Without thinking, you grab the man's pistol.

He looks up at you, startled. His lips begin to form words.

You point it at his head and pull the trigger.

The gunshot pops loudly in your ears, echoing in the small room. His head whips back from the impact, red misting the air.

A thud fills the silence as the man sinks to the floor.

Joel shoves the dead man off of him with a grunt. He cradles his throat and stares up at you, something like anger and disbelief crowding his gaze.

You blink, eyes locked on the body and the blood that pools around it. A skull blown to bits. A gasp breaks through your trembling lips.

You killed him.

You killed him.

This was not an act of mercy. You'd done it freely.

Killed freely.

Joel says something but you can't hear him.

You can't hear anything, like your ears are plugged with cotton.

The blood keeps pooling, spreading, until it touches your boots.

You feel like you're going to hurl.

Joel's voice, strangled and loud, breaks up the fog. He's yelling your name.

You whirl around, but not fast enough.

A gun fires off.

Your body jolts from the impact. Pain shreds through you, red hot, spreading below your collarbone and swallowing your arm. The pistol falls from your grip and you collapse to your knee, the air punched out of your lungs.

A man materializes from the hallway, handgun pointed at you. Before he can fire off another round, Joel bursts forward, catching the man's wrist and expertly disarming him. The gun clatters to the floor.

Fists thud against flesh. Joel punches him once, twice - a strained grunt slipping through his teeth as he grabs the man and throws him against the wall. His fingers tangle in the man's hair, and in one brutal motion, Joel smashes his face into the wall. Then he reels his arm back, repeating the motion. You cringe at the squelch of gore and the crunch of bone but you don't look up. You're breathing hard. Your shirt is warm and wet.

A hand carefully curls over your bicep, coaxing you back up to your feet. You sway a bit, stabilized by the open palm pressed to your lower back. You can feel him checking your shoulder, peeling away the sleeve of your coat, no doubt looking for an exit wound.

One of Joel's hands leaves you, digging for something in his pocket. He produces a handkerchief, balling it up in his palm before pressing it against your wound, the action sending a searing wave of pain through your chest. You hiss at the contact.

"Hold this here and keep pressure on it." He instructs, voice clinical but steady. Your hand curls over the fabric, following his instructions. "We gotta go. Can 'ya move?"

You give him a wobbly nod.

Dazed with pain, you blindly follow Joel through the labyrinth of hallways, clutching your shoulder as you do. He quickly locates the exit, rifle raised as he sweeps the outer perimeter. You linger behind him, watching as he tentatively lowers the gun and moves to the pair of horses. He quickly saddles the brown one.

"C'mon."

Joel helps you onto the horse before hoisting himself up. He settles behind you, reaching around you to gather the reins. His hands are smeared with someone's blood. Maybe yours.

The animal whickers, adjusting to the collective weight. Grip tightening on the reins, Joel guides the horse across the lot before squeezing his legs; a silent command. The horse complies and begins a modest trot before Joel urgently kicks his legs again, sending the animal into a rhythmic canter.

You hold on for dear life as the horse picks up speed. Hooves trample through the snowy underbrush, swift and powerful. It snorts the winter air, clouds puffing from its nostrils. Joel leads the animal through the dense foliage and dead brush with the ease of an experienced rider.

Your back occasionally brushes against Joel's chest, drawn close by the horse's movements. Gritting your teeth, you tightly clutch onto the horn of the saddle with your free hand, an attempt to ease up and stabilize yourself. The movement sends a spark of pain up your arm, and you bite down on your lip to silence your cry.

Joel shifts behind you, snaking a hand under your uninjured arm and heaving you up more securely into the saddle. His chest presses firmly into your back, arms grazing your waist, caging you between them. You stiffen, the close contact disarming you.

"Don't need you fallin' off." He grumbles, his deep voice vibrating through your body. Another spark; not pain, rips down your spine, lingering somewhere in your ribcage.

You ignore it, wetting your chapped lips and focusing on staunching your wound. It continues to bleed, staining your fingers crimson. You'd been coasting on adrenaline but you can feel it ebbing, the pain more substantial now. Pain that squeezes your eye sockets. Burns your throat. Throbs with the beating of your heart.

Trees blur on either side of you, and you can't tell if it's from the horse's speed or if your vision is vignetting. Dizzy, you slump forward, suddenly breathless. Joel curses behind you, adjusting, and you can feel something solid wrap around your waist, securing you.

You wonder if you're about to pass out.

Maybe you do.

You don't remember the rest.

"This is absolutely ridiculous."

You fumble with the fishing line, metal hook slotted between your middle and ring finger as you attempt to untangle the gnarl that the nylon wire has impressively knotted itself into.

A fisherman's knot. How hard could a knot be?

Pretty fucking hard, apparently.

Sighing, your gaze drifts upward.

The river shimmers under a late afternoon sun. It washes over a bed of rounded stones, smoothed by the rushing water. It vines through a field of prairie grass, the fuzzy grains swaying with the soft breeze. Shoes shucked, your toes curl into the cool, soft pebbles as you sit along the river's edge. Crickets sing. Something catches the water in the distance - an osprey diving for its meal.

Mark wades knee-deep with his pant legs rolled up, expertly reeling in the line he's already attached to his pole. You watch him, calve muscles strong, immovable against the river's current. Strong, steady.

Everything is gold and warm. Soft.

If only you could manage this damn knot.

Defeat slumps your shoulders as you let out a loud sigh, wholly exasperated.

"Can't I just tie a normal knot?"

Mark chuckles, the noise carrying off with the current.

"You want the fish to make way with your lure?"

"If it means I don't have to deal with this fishing line, yes."

Water sloshes as he makes his way back to the pebbly shoreline. He settles beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he observes the knot of fishing wire in your hands. You can smell the river and earth on his skin.

"Jesus," He snorts, but not unkindly, his eyes lighting up in amusement. "The hell'd you do? They oughta name a new knot after you."

Your face flames red.

"You know, I liked it better when you just caught the fish yourself."

He chuckles again, low and gravelly.

"I bet 'ya did."

You meet his gaze and something unravels within you. A gentle kindling; something small, quiet, and aching. Something you haven't felt in a long, long time.

Your eyes shyly sweep the wire in your hands.

He lightly taps your chin with his finger. You look up again.

His voice sounds like home.

"Hey sunshine."

You wake to another voice.

"Hand me the scissors."

There's a shallow tug, followed by the snip of a blade. Your face scrunches, willing your eyelids to open, but your body is slow to respond.

The dream clings to your skin. It fades; fading with each breath, an anesthetic losing its effect. Mark's voice becomes beyond your reach, sinking in the murk of your subconsciousness.

Mark is dead.

Fully awake, your instincts flare, muscles clenching, ready to spring. Where is your knife-?

"Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

The voice was calm, steady, but not sweetened with false promises. Familiar in a way that you can't make sense of.

It's Sarah's voice.

Your eyes open.

The cabin is dark, save a few lanterns. You're lying on the couch, coat and flannel removed, you are left in your soiled tank top. One of the straps is pulled down your shoulder, exposing your collarbone and the skin just above the swell of your breast. Your back feels sticky. The smell of antiseptic burns your nostrils.

Your eyes are wet.

"What-?"

"He just stitched you up." Sarah explains calmly. She hovers behind Joel, holding a lantern over his shoulder, blue eyes wide and blinking.

Joel sits on one of the kitchen chairs, leaning over your body to inspect his work. You watch him warily. He avoids your gaze, a furrow pulled between his brows as he concentrates. Seemingly satisfied, he begins packing the thread and needle back into his medical kit. Then he caps the tube of an antiseptic, stowing it in a medicine pouch.

They have medicine-?

"You got shot." Sarah lets you know.

"I remember," You respond dryly, earning a warning look from Joel.

Ignoring him, you lift your head off the pillow to examine your wound. A neat line of black thread sutures it closed. The skin is red and inflamed, glossy with disinfectant. It throbs like a son of a bitch. You're grateful you hadn't been conscious to feel him stitch it.

"My dad said men attacked you."

The loud crack of gunfire, followed by the thud of his lifeless body hitting the floor.

Yeah, you remember that, too.

"It's late, Sarah." Joel speaks up, jutting his chin towards the back hallway. "You should get to bed."

"But-"

"Go on. She needs to rest, too."

She relents, placing the lantern on the coffee table with a petulant sigh. She rounds the couch but pauses under the living room doorway. She tilts her head back to look at you.

"I'm glad you made it back."

Then she leaves you alone with Joel.

The two of you slip into stony silence. His jaw twitches, tightening; wood creaking as he shifts in the chair, arms crossed stiffly over his chest. You shakily pull yourself upright, hissing under your breath as you do.

Sarah's door clicks shut. Your lip curls upward as you level a glare at Joel.

"The hell you playing at?"

He scoffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Funny way of saying thank you."

"Thank you?" You sputter, voice going up an octave. "You tried to kill me."

"I saved you." He counters firmly, the gravel in his voice sharp.

"You tried to leave me behind. I came back for you."

"And I'm lucky I didn't get my goddamn head blown off when you did."

Face flushed, your anger deepens. You don't hold it in.

"Fuck you," You snarl. "You'd be dead without me, and you know it."

"I had it under control," He mutters darkly.

You scoff. Cocky prick.

"Didn't look that way."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The shadows shift in the hollows of his face. Trying to intimidate you, maybe. But when he speaks again, his voice has shed that lethal edge.

"Tell me who you are."

You inhale steadily through your nose, calming yourself. God, you thought people from the South had manners. Has he ever bothered to ask for anything nicely?

With a defeated sigh, you look down at your hands.

"I already told you, I'm nobody." You reply, absently picking at the dirt (or blood) that's wedged under your fingernails. In a quieter voice, you add, "Wasn't a Firefly. Just knew someone who was."

Joel is silent with this information at first.

"What happened to 'em?" He eventually asks, something you can't identify edging his tone.

"Same thing that always happens."

This world will never be scrubbed of it. You both know that.

He doesn't apologize for your loss. You don't want him to.

A log shifts in the fireplace.

"What do you have against the Fireflies?" You question.

"That's none of your concern."

That's bullshit, you think.

"I think you at least owe me an explanation."

"I don't owe you a goddamn thing." Your mouth pops open, ready to retort, but he quickly cuts you off. "Don't like it? Nobody's stopping you from leavin'."

God, he is infuriating. Like talking to a brick wall with a beard.

Reaching up, you absently rub at your forehead, frustration thrumming through your veins. Unfortunately, he's right. You can't force him to tell you.

Fuck this. You can't live under the same roof as this maniac anymore. As soon as you get yourself together, you're gone. Leave Joel to resolve whatever's tangled up in that PTSD-riddled brain of his.

Still, you can't help but wonder: what is he hiding from you?

"Those men," You trail off, mind loosely conjuring images of the hacked-up torso you found in the kitchen. Throat slit, drained. "They were-"

"They weren't men."

Your gaze flickers upward, locking with his. Something unspoken passes between you. Something reassuring. Something that told you that you did what you needed to do, and to not let yourself believe otherwise.

Us or them.

Or are you misreading softness in that calcified gaze of his?

Even if you are on the same page (you probably aren't), it doesn't quell the nausea in your gut. The feeling crawls upward, gripping your throat. You clear it before speaking again.

"Did you at least find any ammo?"

He nods once, but doesn't elaborate further. Doesn't tell you anything about his haul.

Whatever, you don't care. Joel is exhausting. Your shoulder hurts. You're tired. You're ready to retreat to your corner in the garage, sleep until next Tuesday. With a soft groan, you shift forward, preparing to pull yourself up.

"You'll stay in here, now."

You still. What did he say? You must've misheard him.

"Horse needs somewhere to sleep." He speaks with resignation, not out of kindness. "Take the couch."

Right, the horse. You'd nearly forgotten about it.

How decent of him to not make you bunk with the animal.

Still, relief. While you'd gotten somewhat used to sleeping on cold concrete, you're thrilled to lie on something cushioned for once. Plus, he's a lot less likely to kill you when Sarah sleeps just down the hall.

Joel plants his hands on his knees and rises with a near inaudible groan. You watch him move towards the kitchen. Out of sight, you can hear him fishing something out of his bag before returning to the living room. He pauses in front of the couch and extends his arm, beckoning you to take something from him.

Your pistol.

The cool metal slips into your palms, molding with familiarity. His fingers brush yours as he pulls away, calloused and warm. You stare down at the gun, popping open the cylinder. Instead of one bullet, you count six. New rounds slotted into the chamber.

You meet his gaze.

Something flickers in his eyes.

A bit of trust.

Chapter Text

"What should we name her?"

Sarah catches you in the garage. Turning to face her, you see she's still dressed in her flannel pajama pants. Her sweater is oversized, nearly brushing her knees. Feet shoved into mud-stained boots. The horse whickers softly at her arrival.

You ducked out of the cabin early that morning, before either her or Joel had risen for the day. You'd woken with a start, drenched in cold sweat, body shivering despite the steady flames that flickered in the hearth. You don't remember what you dreamed about, but the aftermath lingered in your bones, making your gut curl in on itself. It threw you off the couch, and you managed to get outside before vomit flew from your lips, spattering the snow.

You retched until your stomach emptied itself. Your shoulder burned.

The early morning air calmed you a bit. Gray and cold, combatting your flushed skin. You breathed it in. Once you felt steady on your legs, you found yourself moving to the garage. The horse stood in the middle of the space, saddle and reins removed, neck bowed as she feasted on tufts of hay Joel must've laid out for her. Extra from the coop, maybe.

You didn't have much time to admire her when you were bleeding out on the saddle. She's good-sized, reddish-brown with a dark mane. A bay? You're pretty sure that's the coat color, though your horse breed knowledge is surface-level.

You approached her slowly, arm raised so she could smell you out. She butt your hand and snorted, lightly spraying you, and you couldn't help the smile that split your face.

"Sassy girl," You murmured, running your hands along her side. Fur brushed and sheen, her coat is thick to accommodate for the cold weather. Her tail thwipped. Powerful, elegant.

She's a beauty.

"I... Don't know?" You respond to Sarah's question, like the thought never occurred to you. Really because it hadn't.

"Well, she's gotta have a name." She smiles softly and stands beside you. She reaches out, petting her long muzzle. The horse nudges her fingers, breath musky and sweet. "I was thinking Amber. Maybe Cinnamon?"

"Those are lovely names." You watch her pet the animal, unafraid, and remember how expertly Joel had handled the horse - familiar with the pull of the reins and the unspoken cues. "Ever gone riding before?"

Sarah shrugs, like it's a faraway memory not worth revisiting.

"Once or twice, when I was young."

For the first time, you wonder about Sarah's mom. She's got features she doesn't share with Joel - a gentle, round nose, light hair, light eyes. What happened to her? Lost during the outbreak? Or a tragedy before the world ended?

"How's your shoulder?" Sarah's question throws you out of your thoughts.

"Hurts." You answer honestly.

"What does it feel like? To get shot?"

"Not awesome. I wouldn't recommend it."

Sarah bends over and scoops a fistful of hay from the floor. She offers it to the horse. Large nostrils sniff her hand before its mouth gently curls over the straw.

"You know, you kinda remind me of Legolas."

You snort. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, with your bow and all."

You grin at her.

"Funny. He's way more badass than I'll ever be. You know, I used to have a crush on Legolas. But now I think Aragorn is more my type."

"Why's that?"

"Guess I have a thing for honorable men. Didn't hurt that the actor was quite handsome."

She watches the horse eat for a moment.

"Were you married before?"

You shake your head.

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"I dated a few boys, sure. Long time ago."

"Was Mark one of them?"

Your breath stills at the mention of his name. How did she...?

"I heard you say his name." She continues. "When my dad was stitching you up. You were talking in your sleep."

Heat crawls up your neck. That means Joel heard, too.

"Well, that's embarrassing."

"Don't worry, you didn't say much else."

Your blush lingers.

"Mark was... We were close." You say carefully.

"Was he cute?"

A question asked so innocently it makes your lips curl upward.

"Cute isn't quite how I'd describe him."

"What did he look like?"

You tell her. Tall, broad-shouldered. Dark, shaggy-haired. Weather-worn.

You omit some things. Like the wide expanse of his chest and back, scarred and rough, a roadmap of struggle and survival on his skin. The gentleness in those calloused hands. And God, those eyes - bewitchingly green.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

"I don't ever get to meet other people." Sarah says, sadness edging her tone. "It's just me and my dad. You're the first person I've seen since we moved out here."

"There's not a lot of good people left out there."

"You're good." She counters.

You want to scoff. Good? A good person doesn't abandon their community; their family. You're alive, and you know it's not because you're good.

"My hands aren't clean, Sarah."

"Neither are my dad's. Took a lot to get us here, I know that. Doesn't make you a bad person."

She's just a kid. She doesn't understand.

"Where were you guys before this?" You ask, eager to change the topic.

"The Dallas QZ. When the outbreak happened, the military rounded us up, brought us to the city. My dad and I lived there for a while."

That's where Mark was, you think to yourself.

Life in the Dallas quarantine zone was dark - that's how he'd described it. Day or night, it was dark. A city full of assholes and checkpoints and buildings that reeked of mildew and neglect. Food rations were inconsistent and water usage was limited. A city drained of joy and color and life.

Everything was controlled by FEDRA, and it was clear Mark held resentment for the military group. Bunch of slimy fascists, he'd called them. Men and women who got a kick out of playing God, torturing residents simply because they could get away with it.

"I had this friend," Mark told you, hand tightly laced together to ward off the tremors. "She was walking home from disposal duty. Four soldiers approached her in the alleyway. They searched her for no reason. She wasn't breaking curfew or nothin' like that. Just kept her head down, trying to get home. They took her ration cards. She asked them to give 'em back. They said she sounded good beggin'."

The color had completely drained from your face. These were the government's men? You couldn't believe what you were hearing.

Your brother had been right to stay away from the city.

Mark swiped the back of his hand against his nose, then continued his story.

"They told her that if she wanted her cards back, she'd have to earn 'em. She told them to keep the cards. Tried to walk away. They didn't like that. 'This is our city, and it's time you paid your dues.' That's what they said. Then they attacked her in the alleyway. Had their way with her. Left her to die. Nobody stopped 'em, neither. They knew nobody would stop 'em."

Mark's words left you feeling disconnected, gulping for a response you couldn't muster.

You felt sick. Wrong. Wrong that all you'd ever known was the kindness and warmth of your community. Wrong for drawing an ignorant veil to a world that was too far gone in ways you didn't dare yourself to imagine.

Jaw tight, knuckles white, Mark's glare flashed red.

"Every last one of 'em deserves to die."

The memory dizzies you, and the thought of Sarah in that kind of environment makes your gut wrench.

"What was it like there?" You ask her, heart pounding with dread.

She scrunches her nose.

"Awful. Everyone was angry, all the time. They put us in our own apartment, which was nice I guess, but it had this weird smell. There were tons of rules, too. Couldn't even play outside."

From what you've seen, you have no doubt Joel did everything in his power to shield her from the city's horrors. To keep her world safe. If her biggest complaint was that she couldn't play in the park, then he did a damn good job at it.

She quietly speaks up again.

"I miss our home."

Your chest tightens at how small her voice sounds. You try to offer her a comforting smile.

"Home is with your dad. Don't forget that."

She nods like she knows you're right, but her eyes are still soft and sad.

"Where's your home?"

"I don't have one. Not anymore."

"What happened to your family?"

You tell her about your brother, his wife, your nephew; lost to the horde that overtook your camp. Your parents - you don't know what happened to them. You'll likely never find out. They retired years ago and moved to Arizona, just south of Tucson. As far as you know, they are still there. Dead, you assume.

Sarah listens, offering a quiet "sorry," when you finish.

Lips pressed into a terse line, you say nothing. The reality settled in weeks ago when you were alone in the forest, running, until you were sinking. Lower, lower; curled up on a bed of frost and evergreen, tears streaming down your face, wailing like a wounded animal. Ravaged by grief.

Your family was gone.

No longer a fear of yours. Just a reality.

"Hey, maybe you could be part of ours," She speaks up before clarifying. "Our home."

Part of our home.

You stare at her with mild shock. Sarah doesn't know you - at least, not really. She knows you used to see movies in theaters and that your favorite color is green and that you know how to skin a rabbit; but she doesn't know you. Only what you've chosen to indulge her in. And for her, that's enough?

You can't make sense of it.

While you'd spent the last week co-existing with her and Joel, you'd never really considered your long-term plans. Where you were going next. You took each day as it came, prepared to not make it to the next, always pleasantly surprised when you did.

You register Sarah doesn't know the weight of her words. How they clench your heart so cruelly.

Again, you consider leaving. Moving on.

"Sarah,"

That familiar, deep voice arrives over your shoulder.

Your head swivels back to see Joel standing under the doorway. He's dressed in his own pair of flannel pants, hair slightly touseled, chest heaving like he'd rushed out here, panicked to see Sarah was not in her room. The sight of him so disheveled nearly teases a smile out of you.

Nearly.

"Morning," She greets him with nonchalance. "We were just thinking of a name for her. What do you think of Cinnamon?"

A near inaudible breath puffs out his nose.

"Cinnamon is... fine."

Sarah's smile widens at her father's approval.

"Think we could take her out sometime? To that field with the yellow flowers?"

"Sure, kiddo. We can go there." Then he smiles - he actually fucking smiles, and you realize it's the first time you've seen anything other than that prickly scowl on his face. He's got a nice smile. Faint, but warm. A flickering candle in a cold room. It fades as quickly as it appears. "C'mon then. 'Ya got work to do this mornin'."

She groans like any kid told to do her chores, and follows her father back into the cabin. You stay in the garage.

Cinnamon chuffs. You reach out, petting her muzzle. Her marble-black eyes stare back at you.

What are you going to do?

There's a snow storm in the evening.

At first, the snow fell soft and slow but steady, balls of thick pollen; continuing even as darkness edges the smudged-gray sky. The wind picked up at some point, burdening the trees; a world lashed by white. You watched from the window pane as it hammered the evergreens and the brown underbrush. Your breath fogged the glass, and you reached up to smear the condensation with your fist. The fireplace crackled somewhere behind you, flames occasionally roused by the wind.

You'd spent most of the day outside, walking the perimeter, fingers curled loosely around the string of your bow as you searched for your next meal. You manage a rabbit, skinning the carcass before offering the meat for a soup that boils tepidly on the fire grates.

The storm shuts you inside with Joel and Sarah. You stay out of their way, trying not to linger in the same room as them for very long, wishing you could retreat to the garage.

You're quiet throughout dinner. You don't really remember eating. After washing your bowl, you watch Sarah and Joel retreat to the living room before seating yourself at the kitchen table again. The pendant light dangles above you, unlit. A spiderweb is woven within the light fixture.

Cardboard shuffling, followed by the clatter of loose pieces on the coffee table. They must be playing a board game. Hands threaded together, you listen to the soft murmur of their voices, Sarah quietly claiming her favorite piece.

You try to focus on their voices, you really try - but something doesn't feel right. The air in the kitchen is suddenly too warm. Too stagnant. There's a low throb in the base of your throat. Your heart rate has picked up. The pain in your shoulder has taken over, unrelenting and cruel.

You screw your eyes shut.

You're okay, you're okay.

The mantra doesn't help this time. Panic continues to build, snatching the breath from your lungs. A cold hand grabs the base of your spine, crawling upward.

You think about what you told Sarah earlier. About your family. It conjures unwanted images in your mind, ones filled with gore and teeth and panicked screams. The memory of you cowering behind one of the water cisterns, listening to the wet gurgle of your sister-in-law's throat being ripped open.

A crack in your ear - a gunshot. The sound of a bullet wetly tearing through flesh. You jolt in your seat, startled, and clutch at your shoulder. Your hand pulls away clean - there's no blood. Fuck, what is wrong with you? You can't breathe. You can't breathe.

Abruptly, you push away from the kitchen table. You stagger to the sink, hands gripping the countertop like it's the only thing that'll keep you upright. Staring down the drain, you fight the urge to vomit.

You killed someone.

It was different this time.

You bartered another man's life for Joel's. Watched it drain from his veins. Heard the broken pieces of bone shift inward when the bullet shattered his skull. Tasted copper in the back of your throat. Felt nothing when you did it - soaked in pure adrenaline and instinct.

That divide you all had to cross at some point: kill or be killed.

You killed.

You lived a long time in this world before getting blood on your hands. Now you have to carry that with you. You're afraid it's going to change you. It's already splitting you wide open, wrenching something unfamiliar - something dark and terrible. You feel it now, thrumming under your skin like a fluorescent bulb. You hate it. You want to peel off your skin. Send a bullet through your teeth. Anything to make it stop. Fuck, it's too much-

"You wanna play with us?"

A small voice floats into the kitchen. Silences the ringing in your ears.

Hands still locked on the countertop, you look over your shoulder. Sarah's standing under the doorway, absently twisting the hem of her shirt around her thumb. You stare at her, mouth gaped like an out-of-water fish. For a moment, you feel like you're just imagining her there.

"W-what?" You sputter.

"Do you know how to play Monopoly?" She asks.

Do you know how to play... Monopoly? Like the game with the tiny, mustachioed man? Yeah, you know how to play Monopoly - what does that matter? It's not going to save your life or protect you or find you your next meal.

You nod slowly.

"Do you want to play with us?"

You blink at her. She's not asking anything of you. Just a question. An invitation.

You peel your hands off the countertop. You try to respond. Words are stuck in your throat. You clear it, trying again.

"Okay."

The game board is spread out on the coffee table. The print has faded with age, but you quickly recognize the layout of the board. Each property color coded; Tennessee Avenue, Boardwalk - yes, you remember playing this game. When you were younger, with your father and brother, out on the front porch, absently batting at mosquitos that nibbled the back of your legs as the sky darkened.

You can feel Joel's eyes on you as you take a seat on the floor while Sarah occupies the couch. He's sitting on one of the padded chairs, hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, legs spread to accommodate the coffee table.

Sarah asks which piece you want and you find yourself reaching for the thimble. Sarah has claimed the dog while Joel has the boot.

The game starts, but you can't find yourself in the room. You're still far off, dissonant, somewhere inward, trying to disappear. You wish you hadn't agreed to play. You wish it wasn't snowing outside.

"S' your turn."

Someone's voice cuts through the dissonant haze. You realize it's Joel who spoke up, and not unkindly like you're used to. No venom. Just, patient. Careful.

Your gaze lifts to meet his. Eyes harsh and unreadable, you almost wonder if you imagined how gracious he sounded a second ago.

Wetting your chapped lips, you try to steady the tremble in your hands as you reach for the dice and take your turn. You roll a nine. You buy a property. Your turn is over, and you feel yourself exhale. The pulse in your neck slows.

This isn't so bad. No, you can get through this.

So there you sit. Playing Monopoly like it's the most normal fucking thing in the world.

The three of you spend the next hour circling the board, claiming property and clogging the spaces with tiny houses. Sarah's competitive nature rubs off on you, and you find yourself being pulled into the game. You organize your money into neat piles. You happily collect rent. You groan audibly when you're sent to jail.

You'd always thought luck played a pretty big part in winning Monopoly - but boy, does Joel prove you wrong. He makes terrible decisions. Trades that don't make sense. Constantly lands on claimed spaces. Sarah taunts him relentlessly about it. He endures it, eyes creased, the corners of his lips twitching. Smiling, but not.

You recognize that quiet contentment. He doesn't care if he's losing - just happy to be playing with his daughter.

"Marvin Gardens," Joel's piece lands on the yellow-colored property. He glances over at Sarah, thinking it must belong to her.

"That's mine," Fighting back a smirk, you extend your arm towards him, palm open. "That'll be 360 dollars, please."

"You gotta be kiddin' me," He grumbles under his breath. To his left, Sarah giggles.

"Pay up, dad."

He ignores your outstretched hand and tosses his fake bills on the board instead.

"You know, if you're getting low on cash, you could always apply for a loan." Sarah eyes your growing stack of money, a teasing smile on her lips. "Maybe she's feelin' generous."

"Don't need a damn loan," He mutters. "Just need a break. You sure these dice ain't loaded?"

"Pretty sure it's just you." She pauses. "You're kinda good at this game, 'ya know?"

It takes you a moment to realize Sarah's talking to you. It's a question disguised as a compliment. Scooping the dice into your palm, you take your turn, averting your gaze.

"Luck's a big part of it."

"Maybe you could loan some luck to my dad."

You nearly smile as Joel rolls his eyes with faux irritation. She jokes when he lands in jail for the sixth time (seriously, is he incapable of rolling doubles?). You watch them for a moment, feeling like you've upturned a stone and found the last pocket of joy left in this shit-awful world.

At some point, the room grows significantly quieter and you realize Sarah has fallen asleep on the couch. Without saying anything, Joel rises from his chair. Carefully, he scoops her into his arms like she weighs nothing, cradled against his chest where she's safest. The sight unexpectedly pangs your hearts as you watch him carry her to her room.

Then you're alone.

You stare tiredly into the flames. Guess you'll call it a night.

If you weren't so exhausted, you might still be thinking about the gunshots and the blood and the screams but your mind is pleasantly blank as you drag yourself onto the couch, springs creaking as you settle on the cushions.

Resting on your back, you stare up at the dark ceiling until your eyes close, sinking into the warmth of Joel's old flannel.

Chapter Text

The crack of wood shatters the morning silence.

The blade of the axe gets stuck, buried deep in the log. Hands tightening around the handle, you try to wiggle it loose with an embarrassing amount of effort, cursing as you do. Eventually, you free it, but irritation lingers as you realize the log is still in one piece.

Straightening, you feel a low burn in your lower back. You free one hand from the handle, digging your knuckle bones into your muscles to unburden them. You've swung the axe a dozen times, yet you only have a few split pieces of wood to show for.

You take a deep breath, examining the forest around you.

The air shed its winter sting, the sky stretching wide and blue. Thawed snow drips from the tree branches. Ice gives way to rich brown soil and unfurling green buds. Soon, the wild flowers will rise from the ground, bathed by the sun-soaked air. Pollinators will feast on them. Rabbits will nibble on the stems. The forest will become a living, breathing being again.

Weeks have passed since you arrived at Joel and Sarah's sanctuary. You've fallen into a rather tepid lifestyle. Chores occupy your mornings and afternoons, as you opt to spend most of your time outdoors, if the weather permits. You mostly hunt, returning in the evenings to gut your kill by the firepit. Sometimes you'll brush Cinnamon's coat or feed the chickens or collect eggs with Sarah (though ever since that rust-colored hen violently pecked at your fingers, you try to minimize your time in the coop).

At night, the three of you sit at the table for dinner, like some unspoken house rule. Joel prepares the meals, but you quickly realize he doesn't incorporate the neglected spice rack nearly enough to your liking. You offer to cook. He gruffly declines, as if offended by the suggestion. Apparently, he trusts you with a loaded gun, but not with the oregano.

However bland they may be, consistent meals have you nearly back to a healthy weight. Thanks to all of that labor, you find ribbons of lean muscle that weren't there before. Hands shredded, developing hard callous. After bathing yourself the other evening, you noticed the dark crescents beneath your eyes had lightened. A bit more lift in your gaze. Life.

You work hard. But Joel has yet to thank you for any of your efforts. In fact, he practically ignores your existence entirely. Each skinned critter is collected with no less than a grunt of acknowledgement. Deep down, you know there's a part of you that wants to impress him - prove that you're useful. That he made the right decision to let you stay. He has yet to give off an impression of the sort.

It frustrates you, but you try to steel yourself - it doesn't matter what he thinks. All that matters is that he somewhat trusts you - or at least, trusts you enough to carry a loaded gun around him and his daughter.

You need to move on. Now that your wound's mostly healed and you've plushed weary bones with muscle, there's nothing keeping you here. You've disturbed their world enough.

You supposed you could try and head West. Look for your parents. You don't know why you allow yourself to think that's possible - the trek to Tuscan would certainly kill you.

Refocusing on the firewood, you shift your stance, dense mud squelching beneath your boot. Lifting the axe over your head, you bring it down in a falling arc. You make contact, but the blade doesn't dig much deeper than from your first swing.

"God dammit," You mutter.

"You ever done this before?"

The axe nearly falls from your grip. Spinning around, you see Joel standing just feet away, arms crossed over his chest. Brows downward, lips twisted into that dissatisfied scowl.

Heat creeps up your neck. How long has he been watching you?

"You enjoying the show?"

"Gonna blow out your back if you keep swingin' it like that." He ignores your snark and approaches you slowly, voice gruff.

You narrow your eyes.

"The hell do you care?"

You can't help it. His unhelpful attitude makes you want to be a bitch to him.

"I care if we run outta firewood 'cause of your pisspoor technique."

Seething, you turn your back to him.

"Alright, Paul Bunyan." You clench out, struggling to free the axe as you speak. "Unless you're going to give me actual advice, leave me to throw my back out in peace."

You pause at the crunch of approaching footsteps. Before you can do anything, the handle is ripped out of your hands, causing you to stumble back. Any protest is silenced as he effortlessly yanks the axe free, heaving it over his head and bringing it down in one powerful motion. The wood cracks, splitting in two.

Smug bastard. You want to throttle him. Instead, you mumble a bitter "I got that one started," as he turns around to face you.

"Don't use your arms so much," His voice has shed that derisive tone as he holds the axe out, beckoning for you to take it. "Let the axe do the work. Control is more effective than power."

"Easy for you to say." You mutter, comparing your scrawny noodle arms to the muscles corded beneath his flannel.

Adjusting your grip to mimic his, you feel the heel of his boot kick your inner-foot, a silent command to widen your stance. You shoot him a glare but comply, shifting your feet. Bending over, he reaches for another log and places it on the stump.

"Look for weak spots," He traces a diagonal line across a crevice in the center of the wood. "See this knot? Aim here."

You cock a brow.

"Aim? How do I aim? I'm just lucky I don't whack off a toe."

He rolls his eyes.

"Just shut up and swing."

Huffing, you switch your glare from the infuriating man beside you and onto the piece of wood in front of you.

Let the axe do the work.

Sucking in a breath, you pull the axe over your head and bring it down in a falling arc, unclenching your muscles on the downswing. The blade makes contact with the wood, and though it doesn't completely split it in two, it buries much deeper this time.

That felt better, you think to yourself, feeling a pathetic swell of satisfaction in your gut. Glancing over your shoulder, you unabashedly look for Joel's approval. But he's already walked off, disappearing into the garage to check on Cinnamon.

Your lips twitch into a frown.

Prick.

You twist the axe free, ignoring the faint throb in your shoulder.

At least he doesn't pity you. Treat you with kid gloves. Like you're some broken thing, incapable of taking care of yourself. He's still that same crotchety asshole, complaining about your skinning technique and the apparently incorrect way you assemble a campfire (who is he, Ranger Rick?).

At night, though, it seems you two have an unspoken truce.

Because nights are the hardest, when the world is silent but your mind is not. They're when you're less armored, at the mercy of your memories - the images sharp as nails, lashing and clawing at your face. Not safe. Never safe.

Joel doesn't sleep well either, apparently.

A couple weeks ago, you'd woken from one of those nightmares, skin sheen with cold sweat, your wound producing a dull throb. You stumbled into the kitchen to wash off, only to find a dark blob sitting at the table. It's Joel, you realize, sharpening a knife by the dimmed light of a lantern. You freeze under the doorway, pulse quickening, your body still fighting to come down from your dream.

His dark eyes lock with yours, but it doesn't feel like a threat this time, though. No - with one of the chairs slightly pulled out beside him, it almost feels like... an invitation.

He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. You go back to bed.

You wonder if Joel's haunted in his sleep, like you. If his past weighs heavy on him. A living thing - red, constant and cruel. A ghost haunting his own skin.

Lips rolling together, you shake away those thoughts like loose parts. Joel's well-being is not of your concern. He certainly doesn't care about your own.

Resetting, your next swing splits the log in half.

Sarah's chatty during dinner. 

Unfortunately, you're the topic of interest tonight. 

She asks about your pre-Outbreak life. After finishing college, you tell her you stayed in Chicago for work, where you shelled nearly two grand a month for a cramped apartment in Wicker Park. After spending five minutes describing the concept of deep-dish pizza, you talk about the city's skyscrapers, the museums, riding the L (though you omit the time you walked into the cart and there was a pile of actual human shit on the floor).

Sarah stares at you thoughtfully while you talk, resting her cheek against her fist. Joel keeps his gaze trained downward, features not quite as pinched as you're accustomed to seeing. Listening, or maybe lost in his own head. You can't read him.

"What was your favorite thing to eat?" Sarah asks.

"I really miss hamburgers." You confess with a soft sigh. "Fries, too. Used to dip them in mayo."

She scrunches her face like something foul has wafted under her nose.

"You dipped your fries in mayo?"

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it."

"Sorry, that sounds so gross."

You shake your head, making a noise between your closed lips. "Garlic fries with a side of aioli? God, nothing better."

Sarah giggles at your dreamy expression.

"Careful. Your drool might get on the table."

"What about you?" You ask. "What did you like eating?"

"Definitely spaghetti."

"Spaghetti, huh?"

"Yeah. My dad and I used to go to this Italian restaurant for our birthdays. I'd get spaghetti. Dad always got the lasagna."

You steal a glance at Joel, as if looking for confirmation. It's hard to imagine him in a normal setting like that - scrunched in a booth amongst the idle chatter of the restaurant, a plate of cheesy lasagna placed in front of him. It's an image that chips away at that rough exterior he fronts, if only for a second.

You lean back in your chair, pursing your lips.

"You know, if you've got any tomatoes in that garden, it's pretty easy to put together a red sauce. I could show you how."

Sarah's eyes go as wide as saucers.

"Really?"

You shrug.

"Sure. Used to make it all the time. We'll have to find some pasta, though."

"That sounds amazing," She turns to face her dad. "Don't you think?"

Joel offers a non-commital grunt.

Sarah's mouth twists into a scowl at his lack of enthusiasm. Then they purse outward as she tilts her head, like something's just occurred to her.

"You know, dad, you're kinda like Gimli."

You try your hardest to not burst out laughing, containing yourself to a light snort. Grumbly and stubborn? Yeah, Sarah hit the nail on the head with that one.

His gaze briefly flickers over to you before he looks at his daughter again, frown deepening.

"Ain't that the grumpy dwarf?"

Sarah's grin grows.

"Ah! So you have seen the movies!"

He shrugs, fighting to maintain his nonchalance.

"Might've seen one or two of 'em."

"Oh, you're so busted! And to think, you've been holdin' out on me this whole time, old man? You better tell me the ending right now."

There's a teasing pull to his lips.

"Don't really remember how it ends."

"You liar!" She seats herself again, turning to face you. "He always liked watching those old action movies."

"Which ones?" You ask before you can stop yourself.

"Oh, you know, the ones from the 80s, with kung-fu and guns and explosions."

Oh, those kinds of action movies? You know exactly what she's talking about - the ones with corny dialogue and crappy special effects, with stars like Bruce Willis, Sylvester Stallone, Chuck Norris... It's not what you would've expected out of him. In fact, you didn't know Joel even had the capacity to enjoy things like movies.

Then a thought occurs to you.

Cluck Norris.

Did... Joel name the chicken?

"What was that one robot movie called? Terminator?" Sarah questions before lowering her voice, trying to quote the catchphrase. "I'll come back."

Joel chuckles at her impression. The sound makes the cabin feel a little warmer.

"It's: 'I'll BE back.'"

It's becoming difficult to suppress your laughter. Seeing Joel like this; his expression edging playfulness? You don't recognize him like this, and it has you reeling.

You can't help but think it's endearing as fuck.

For a moment, it feels like you've stepped into their world again - a gentle, safer world; except this time, it feels like you're actually part of it. A world where you don't have to kill to survive. A world where you could discuss movies and the immorality of dipping french fries in mayonnaise. One where you're allowed to make jokes at the dinner table. Where you could just... Be. Live a normal fucking life.

Like before.

The feeling becomes overwhelming. You're not supposed to think about going back to before. You'll never go back to before. You've learned that lesson.

A stifling heat courses through you, climbing your body like a rash. You wish you had a bedroom to retreat to but you don't, so you sit there, enduring the discomfort with a clenched jaw, anxiety curling in your belly, nails digging into the hardwood of your chair.

Until Sarah attempts another Schwarzenegger impression. Then you have no choice but to just wipe your mind blank and laugh.

"Do you think he's cute?"

Sarah's question draws your attention away from the Home & Health magazine spread open on your lap. Her finger taps on one of the pages of an old tabloid. Photoed is a young man with a swathe of brown hair, his nose sloped elegantly, with the smallest purse to his pink lips.

You scrunch your nose lightly in contemplation.

"Too pretty for my taste."

She hums to herself and examines the printed man again, her gaze carefully dancing over his features.

After dinner, Joel retreats to the bathroom to wash up while Sarah invites you to hang out with her in the living room. She gathers her collection of magazines and the two of you sprawl out on the floor, using the light from the fireplace to flip through the glossy pages. Occasionally, she reads snippets out loud about celebrity gossip and news, and she asks you about it. "Why did Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez break up?" "Did you watch Friends?" "Who is Britney Spears?"

Public breakups, scandals, paparazzi swarms - that feels like an entirely different life; a life in which you once happily divulged into those kinds of things. So weird that you used to care about who was dating who, or what skincare product gave celebrities such a youthful glow (when it was undoubtedly just a shit-ton of botox).

You feel an urge to indulge Sarah. Give her a glimpse of that life.

"Were there many boys your age at the QZ?"

Sarah flips to the next page, shyly averting her gaze.

"A few,"

You tilt your head, lips curling upward.

"Did you... Think any of them were cute?"

"Some, yeah." She admits with a blush. "They definitely didn't look like this."

"Nobody looks like that. Those are models. Probably photoshopped, too."

"Photo...shopped?"

"Yeah, it's like a computer software that people used to edit photos."

She nods absently, rolling her lips together.

"Life before was so strange."

"It kinda was, yeah." You agree with a light smile.

A comfortable silence stretches between you as Sarah resumes her flipping. Looking back down at your magazine, you lazily scan the ingredients listed for a seared steak and creamed spinach recipe, trying to ignore the gurgle in your belly.

"Hey," Sarah catches your attention again. "I want to get something for my dad's birthday next fall. Do you think you could help me out?"

"I don't know, maybe." You answer wearily, stomach flipping when she mentions next fall. "What were you thinking?"

"One of these. I want to get him one of these."

She slides the magazine towards you, finger tapping on the page. She's pointing to the man's wrist. You raise a brow.

"A watch?"

She nods.

"He used to wear one all the time, but he lost it when we left the QZ. He still liked using it, keeping track of time and all that. He's weird like that."

You think it's sweet that Sarah wants to get him a gift - you're just not sure how you feel about your involvement with said gift. Your relationship with Joel is prickly, to put it mildly. The last thing you want to risk your neck for is a present for that son of a bitch.

"I'm not asking you to go out of your way to find one or anything." Sarah adds dismissively, like she can sense your hesitancy. She pulls the magazine out of your line of sight again. "Just if you happen to see one when you're out."

"Do you leave the cabin very often?" You ask, curious.

"Sometimes I'll go with my dad on runs, but most times he has me stay back. Says it's safer that way."

"He's right. You never know what you might run into out there."

She watches you with a probing, steady gaze.

"How many Infected have you killed?"

"I'm not sure," You admit. "Maybe a dozen?"

She chews her lip in quiet contemplation, her expression blank. When she speaks again, her voice barely hovers above a whisper.

"I... I've killed one."

Her words make your stomach swoop with dread. You close your magazine, giving her your full attention.

"It was attacking my dad. Caught him off guard." She explains, eyes distant as she stares down at her lap. "It moved so fast. I didn't even have time to think. I took my knife and stabbed it in the head. Just like how they taught us at the QZ."

You notice how thick the words sound in her throat. You can tell the incident weighs heavy in her mind, gnawing at the most vulnerable parts of her.

"Sounds like you saved his life."

The magazine slides off her lap, forgotten, as she brings her legs in close. She hugs her knees to her chest, resting her chin on top.

"Do you... Do you think they're trapped inside?" She murmurs into her knee. "You know, their old selves, without any control of their bodies?"

You'd be lying if you said the thought had never occurred to you, either. Being on your own gave you plenty of time to construct your own horrific theories, ones that involved a slow takeover of one's body, consciousness trapped within, banging to get out. Helpless, pliant to the fungus that forces you to consume your own friends and family.

Fuck.

Even if you actually believed that, you can't let Sarah believe it.

You shake your head.

"No. No, I don't think that. They might still look like themselves, but they're not people anymore. They're gone. Passed on."

"Passed on where?"

"Dunno. Just... On."

"Like heaven or something?"

You nod. Sure, heaven.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, my dad says the same thing." For the first time, you notice her fingernails are bitten down to nubs. "I'm just... Scared of becoming one of them."

An unexpected fierceness breaks out within you - a desire to shield her from such fears. Your hand twitches, an urge to reach out and draw her in close, but you stop yourself.

"That won't happen to you." You assure her, quiet but firm. "Your dad will make sure of that. You'll always be safe with him."

She nibbles on her bottom lip, hugs her legs tighter.

"I don't like when he goes out by himself." She continues. Then, her eyes lift, locking with yours. "I'm glad you're here. To have his back."

Have his back? Having his back earned you a hand around your throat and a bullet through the shoulder, you recall bitterly.

Then you look away, guilt rising. Sarah's happy you're here and you can't find yourself to return the sentiment? What is wrong with you?

Coward, your battered mind whispers.

Just run away. It's what you're good at.

"Why do you do that to your hair?"

Sarah's question pulls you out of the maze of your mind. You blink at her before absently reaching up, your hand brushing the ends of your hair.

"Hm? Braid it? It keeps it out of my face."

"Oh," She comments. "I like it."

"Would you... Do you want me to braid your hair?"

She exhales a soft smile. Voice polite.

"Yes, please."

So you sit on the floor, Sarah perched in front of you, hair curtained down her back as you gently comb the strands with your fingers. She'd find photos in magazines and you'd do your best to copy them, twisting and binding her hair into elaborate styles. Then she'd dash off to find a mirror, and the two of you would explode into a fit of giggles when she saw how messy it looked compared to the magazine model.

You're not sure how much time passes when Joel appears, his presence always stifling the room. Your shoulders instinctively tense, rising like hackles, as he emerges from the hallway.

His hair is damp and glistening from his bath, slightly slicked back. Looks like he's trimmed his beard a bit, too. Flannel abandoned, he's left in a plain t-shirt, a towel slung over his shoulder. You catch the length of his bare forearms, and you realize it's probably the most of him you've ever seen.

He looks alarmingly domestic.

You tear your eyes away, face warm.

"Time for bed, kiddo." He says.

"Hey, check it out." Sarah rises to her feet, spinning once to showcase her braided-crown that you had to use paperclips to fasten together. "She did my hair. How does it look?"

He softens.

"You look beautiful, baby girl."

"Dad," Sarah groans, embarrassed, eyes briefly catching yours. The moment touches you, and you can't help the smile that reaches your lips. You glance down at your lap, feeling like you're intruding.

"What? I can't call you my baby girl, anymore?"

"I'm not a baby," She mumbles, cheeks reddening as she crosses her arms over her chest.

Joel seems amused by her reaction, but you can't help but notice the downturn to his eyes, like he can't believe how grown his daughter has become. A reality no parent ever wants to face, pre or post-Outbreak.

He juts his chin back towards the hallway.

"C'mon, then."

You bid Sarah goodnight, but then she does something you don’t expect.

She hugs you.

You stiffen as her arms wrap around you, pulling you close. She tucks her small frame into your torso, mumbling gratitude into your shoulder.

It’s awkward, strange - but Sarah doesn’t seem to think so. She embraces you with familiar warmth. For a moment, you think of your nephew, when he’d race towards you at top speed before clinging to your leg like a leech. He’d giggle maniacally, and you’d fold over him, nuzzling your nose against his hair, planting a kiss on top of his sweet head.

Tears unexpectedly well in your eyes.

As you’re about to move your arms and return the hug, she pulls away. She flashes you an easy smile before the two of them retreat to their rooms.

Alone, you stave tears with the heel of your hands before cleaning up your space, collecting the magazines and sorting them into neat stacks on the coffee table. 

At some point, Joel reappears, watching you from beneath the living room doorway.

Glancing up, you expect a threat in his gaze, but he looks at you with indifference. Blank and unreadable.

"Just give me a few more days," You mutter. "A few days and I'll be gone."

His gaze hardens.

"Fine by me."

Chapter Text

“Wake up!”

A voice corrals you from an inky dark dream, waking you with a start. Heart pounding, you heave yourself upright, fingers twitching for the knife under your pillow. Sarah stands over you, arms crossed behind her back.

“Wha-? What’s going on?” You ask, voice still thick with sleep.

“It’s my birthday!” She beams and you feel your body deflating. No danger, just the kid’s birthday. You flop back onto the couch, throwing your forearm over your eyes to block the morning light. How does she even know what day it is? Though, Joel does seem like the type to pin a calendar on the refrigerator, ticking off the passing days with a sharpie.

“Happy birthday,” You mumble, trying to calm your racing heart.

“Thanks,” She smiles before seating herself on the couch, not even caring that you’re still sprawled across it. You shift to accommodate her, her legs draping over yours.

You can’t remember the last time you celebrated your own birthday - not even the year before the Outbreak. You’d reached an age where birthdays just didn’t feel as important anymore. They turned into small affairs, quiet celebrations with a girlfriend or two, splitting a fat bottle of wine under a rose-brined sky.

“We’re going out today.” Sarah announces.

“Oh yeah?”

“Special occasion and all. Dad promised me he’d take me to a museum.”

“Fun,” You can’t even feign enthusiasm. It’s too damn early.

“Will you come with us?”

Your arm slides down your face.

“What?”

“I want you to come with,” She reiterates, eyes round and pleading. “Will you?”

Well, this is unfair. You really don’t want to go, but how are you supposed to say no to her? Maybe Joel can do that for you.

“I’m not sure that-”

“I already asked my dad,” She quickly adds. “He said it’s fine.”

Damn.

You doubt Joel actually thinks it’s fine. You’re certain the last thing he wants is you intruding on a special day with his daughter.

You groan, out of excuses.

Her lips stretch into a grin.

“Come on, sleepy. Get dressed. He’s getting the truck ready.”

The truck? Before you can question her, she bounds off the couch and disappears somewhere within the cabin.

Staring up at the ceiling, you rub your hands along the length of your face. This is not good. You’d planned on prepping for your journey West today; hunting, collecting water, whittling a few more arrows.

Guess one more day wouldn’t make a difference.

Rising from the couch, you sort through your small pile of belongings before retreating to the bathroom for privacy. You change into your only set of jeans and a quarter-sleeve shirt, buttoning Joel’s old flannel on top. Glancing at your reflection, you twist your overgrown hair into a high bun. Maybe Sarah can help you cut it, later.

Exiting the bathroom, you grab your obnoxiously pink backpack and your bow and meet them outside.

A Chevy truck sits parked by the garage, tarp removed. It’s an early model with a single cab, the black paint sun-faded, the tires dusted with dirt. A coil of rope and an extra gas canister sit in the truck bed.

Joel’s topping the tank with fluids while Sarah pulls herself into the passenger’s seat.

You wonder where the hell they got a working truck. And gas. A trip to the museum seems like a waste of fuel, but he must have some more reserved. Good thing it’s not your job to care.

He caps the tank, brows pulled downward (resting-grumpy face, you call it) as he works. He’s dressed in a brown canvas jacket and dark denim jeans. A high-caliber rifle is pulled over his shoulder, while an intimidatingly-long blade is holstered at his hip. At least he has the sense to be well armed for your little field trip.

Releasing your clenched jaw, you take a slow breath.

You can get through this day. You will not ruin this for Sarah.

The three of you cram together on the bench seat, Sarah seated between you and Joel. You’re uncomfortable with the close proximity, shifting as close to the passenger’s door as you can manage. Sarah practically bounces in her seat, charged with excitement.

After a declaration that it’s her birthday so she gets to choose the music, she quickly cycles through a leather bound booklet full of CDs and pops one into the console. A bluesy guitar rift starts playing through the speakers, accompanied by low vocals.

You inhale sharply through your nose. Old memories, pressed into songs. Dimmed dive bars and flat beer. Summer night air that never cooled. The swell of laughter and the hum of cicadas. Images rolling into memories you didn't ask for but can't seem to keep away.

It dizzies you.

Absently, your fingers touch the worn leather beneath you, almost like they’re searching for something. Yearning to hold something familiar. Or to ground yourself.

Sarah asks if you know this song and you nod, too distracted to compliment her taste in music.

The vehicle continues to move over unpaved roads, the truck bed creaking with each bump and dip. You take a moment and let your eyes wander throughout the interior. The dash reads that the tank is nearly full. The gray leather seats smell faintly of mildew. The cupholders and footwells are empty. Nothing dangles from the rearview mirror. Nothing to indicate whether or not the truck previously belonged to Joel.

You dare a glance at him. He’s alert as he drives, eyes constantly sweeping either side of the road as he drives. However, his finger absently taps the steering wheel, following the song’s rhythm.

You didn’t take Joel for a music guy.

He’s such an enigma to you.

Gaze fixed out the window, you watch blurs of trees pass on either side of you. Gravel kicks around the tires until Joel finds the smoothed pavement of the highway. Even on an empty road, he drives the speed limit.

“You ever been to a museum?” Sarah speaks up, breaking you of your trance.

You nod, still staring out the window.

“Chicago had some nice ones.”

“What were they like?”

“Lots of cool art.” You pause, leaning back in your seat. Your eyes glanced towards Sarah. “One of ‘em had a huge T-rex skeleton.”

Her eyes go wide.

“A real dinosaur?”

“Yep,”

“Damn, that’s cool. Maybe we’ll see one today!”

“Hey, language,” Joel frowns at his daughter, forcing Sarah to mutter a quiet “sorry” under her breath. “And I wouldn’t get your hopes up, kiddo. Don’t think they were any dinosaurs in the Old West.”

“Hey, you never know!” She turns in your direction. “We went to a science museum once, back at home.”

You nod absently.

“Science is cool.”

“I know. Too bad they didn’t teach us that kinda stuff back at the QZ.”

Joel’s grip shifts on the wheel, briefly tightening. It’s subtle, but you catch it. You can tell the conversation is veering towards a topic he isn’t comfortable with - their life at the QZ. You haven’t quite figured out why he won’t talk about it, almost like he wants to forget about it entirely. Though if it was anything like Mark had described, you wouldn’t blame him.

“So, thirteen, huh?” You glance down at Sarah, changing the topic.

“Yup,” She crosses her arms over her chest, smiling proudly. “Means I’m officially a teenager.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Joel shoots her an incredulous look. “Teenager? Accordin’ to who?”

“Uh, according to the rules of the world. ThirTEEN.”

“Better double check that calendar.” Joel mutters under his breath. “Maybe I marked the wrong year.”

She grins.

“Accept it, old man.”

“Feel any different?” You ask.

“Not really.” She crinkles her nose, almost like she’s disappointed. “Did you feel different?”

“I don’t really remember,” You remember thirteen feeling like a turning point - when your body started to change and you looked at boys differently, stealing shy glances and disguising shoulder punches as declarations of love - but bringing any of that up might give Joel a goddamn heart attack. “That was a long time ago.”

“What about you, dad? Did you feel different?” Her lips twist into a playful smirk. “Or were you too worried about the dinosaurs breaking into your home?”

“Ha-ha,” He replies sarcastically, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Very funny.”

She leans back in her seat, seemingly proud of her joke. The conversation eventually shifts, and the two of them begin discussing their favorite songs from the album Sarah picked. You turn to look out the window again, lulled by their voices and the smooth roll of the tires over pavement.

It’s a relatively quick drive - an hour, maybe two at most.

Crossing the cracked pavement of the empty lot, Joel parks the truck behind the building, ensuring it's out of sight from the main road.

“Are we sure this is safe?” You ask as you unclip your seatbelt.

“Scouted it out ‘bout a month ago,” Joel responds without looking at you. “Made sure to lock it up ‘fore I left.”

You know he’d never bring his daughter somewhere if there was even an inkling of it being unsafe. Still, it’s risky, being out here like this. You could run into a wandering pack of Infected, or other men, more interested in looting and killing you than discussing a Pollock painting. You grip your bow tight, skin prickling.

The museum is a single-story, ruddy brick building with a rotunda at the center of it. You briefly survey the perimeter, checking for movement. The doors appear to be sealed shut and the glass windows are still intact. No signs that anyone has broken in or looted recently. That’s good.

Approaching the front doors, Joel withdraws a rung of keys he must’ve swiped from his last visit. He slots one of them into the lock and twists the knob open. He slips inside, ordering you and Sarah to wait outside so he can make sure it’s clear.

Minutes later, he reemerges, a smile ghosting his lips. “Your ticket, ma’am,” his voice rumbles as he slips Sarah a piece of cardstock, the word Ticket printed in bold text. “Thank you, kind sir,” Sarah accepts with a grin. The interaction is sweet, goofy. Worms at something in your chest.

Head bowed, you follow them into the building.

Quiet, dark; the museum’s air is too still for your liking.

The wooden floors are dulled with dust, littered with exhibit pamphlets and other debris. Loose cables drape from worn-down parts of the ceiling, the drywall crumbling in some areas. Someone’s purse sits abandoned at the front desk. You rifle through it and snag a tube of chapstick.

The three of you walk through the entryway and bypass the turnstile, entering the main foyer.

Sunlight shines through the rotunda windows, illuminating the space with natural light. Dozens of glass displays fill the large room, the exhibits containing pieces from Indigenous American cultures, cowboys, and other parts of the American West. Paintings occupy the empty spaces on the walls, each one bordered with elaborate faux-bronze frames. An interactive display, some kind of wooden cradle, maybe a sifter, sits in the middle of the room - an ode to the gold rush.

Sarah and Joel walk off without you, which you’re fine with. You linger back, watching as they wander the space together, catching the low murmur of their conversations from a distance. She asks questions, bouncing from display to display, absorbing it all with rapt interest.

Being here is strange. You’re pummeled with a weird sense of nostalgia, even though you’d never stepped foot in this museum.

This is normal. This is a normal thing you used to do.

You try to summon the old version of you - the one that used to leisurely read each historical exhibit tag, admiring the unique visual elements of the art pieces. But you can’t find her. Instead, your eyes absently glaze over each display. Unfocused. Distracted. Senses burdened, assessing for unknown threats.

You stop in front of one of the displays. Behind the glass sits a beautifully carved recurve bow, the wood polished and glossy. It’s ancient, the string worn down, but you can’t help but admire it.

Then your eye catches something next to it. A long, slender pole made of bamboo, the point of a metal blade fastened at the end, equipped with a strap that appears like leather. It’s probably just another replica, but the weapon looks solid. Sturdy.

Fishing Spear, the exhibit tag reads.

Seems like that could come in handy.

You shatter the case.

Joel whirls around, flinching for his gun, but stops when he realizes it’s just you, his face pinched with irritation.

Ignoring him, you take the weapon and hold it in your hands, feeling it out. It’s light. Easy to handle. The point is sharp, made of real metal.

Satisfied, you throw the strap over your shoulder, securing it next to your bow.

Who would’ve thought to raid a museum for weapons? You wonder what else may come in handy here. Maybe some equipment for Cinnamon?

Sarah’s voice echoes in the foyer, drawing your attention.

Across the room, you nearly snort at the sight of her sitting in an ancient canoe, blatantly ignoring the Do Not Touch sign. She’s wearing a fur-lined hat, holding onto one of the wooden oars. She begins rowing, like she’s traversing the current of an invisible river. Joel watches her, amused, until Sarah insists he climb aboard, too. “Hurry, before you drown!”

He struggles to fit his large body into the tiny canoe, knees scrunched to his chest, the wood creaking loudly with his added weight. Sarah giggles maniacally at his apparent discomfort before passing him his own oar, barking out commands like she’s the captain.

It’s so goddamn precious.

You smile. A real, genuine smile. Unforced. Unburdened by anxiety. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Like before.

The afternoon passes quietly. You continue to wander the main foyer, observing the paintings on the walls, admiring the brush strokes of beautifully slanted landscapes with flecks of wildflowers, as well as the gray strokes of worn-torn lands, ravaged by tragedy and death; the kinds of paintings you don’t find nearly as haunting as you used to.

At some point, Sarah announces she’s going to check out the giftshop.

Your gaze flickers over to Joel. He’s standing on his own, staring at one of the display cases. A mannequin dressed in cowboy garb is propped up behind the glass, equipped with suede chaps and a ten-gallon hat.

After a deep breath, you approach him.

“You window shopping?” You walk up beside him, offering him a sidelong glance. “I could break it open for you, get you that hat.”

A muscle ticks near his mouth. He hooks his thumb under the strap of his rifle, resting it there.

“I’ll pass,” He mutters, as stoic as ever.

You’re not sure why you’re even bothering. Maybe seeing Sarah so damn happy makes you want to reach out and bridge whatever’s broken between you and Joel.

“C’mon. I see how well you handle Cinnamon,” You cross your arms over your chest, a spark of playfulness in your tone. “You’ve been around horses before. Do you moonlight as a cowboy or something?”

He says nothing and moves to the next display case. You stay on his heels.

“Worked on a ranch?”

Silence.

You sigh forelongingly.

“If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to assume you were a rodeo clown.”

He turns around and stares at you, unamused. You meet his dead-eyed expression with a sickly sweet smile. He lets out an indignant puff out his nose.

“Didn’t own horses or anythin’ like that. Just ridden my fair share.”

How wonderfully vague.

“So, what did you used to do?” You ask.

“If I tell you, will you leave me the hell alone?” He snaps.

His brusqueness nearly makes you stumble. What the fuck? Anger sparks under your skin. You let your hands fall back down by your side, mood immediately soured.

“Jesus, do you have to be such an asshole about everything? Thought your daughter’s birthday would at least put you in a good mood.”

“Not sure why you think I owe you my entire backstory.”

“It’s called making conversation, dickhead. You know, gettin’ to know one another.”

He turns on his heel, catching you by surprise. His broad frame hovers over yours, a sarcastic glint in his eye.

“Why? Thought you were leavin’.”

He’s close. Very close. You can smell the cabin’s warmth on his skin. It makes your heart stutter for some reason. You take a step back, immediately wishing you hadn’t. Rolling your shoulders back, you try to stand tall.

“I-I am.”

“Don’t really see the point in gettin’ to know one another then, huh?”

You fumble for a response, but nothing comes. He walks off, thinking he’s won.

Nah, he doesn’t get to have the final word. You follow him.

“Why do you hate me so much? Huh? What the hell have I done?” You reach for your flannel, fumbling with the buttons. “This your favorite fucking flannel or something? I’ll give it back to you if it means that much to you.”

He twists back to glare at you.

“You’ve been nothin’ short of a pain in my ass since you showed up.”

Your mouth falls open, stunned.

You hate that his words sting.

“Pain in the ass?” You sputter, confusion bubbling up from beneath your anger and embarrassment. “What are you talking about? I’ve worked my keep.”

Joel shoots you a sneer, ready to fire off some bullshit insult, but seems to decide against it. You’re not going to let him walk off, though. If you haven’t been pulling your weight like he says, you deserve some kind of explanation.

You reach for his shoulder, turning him so he faces you.

“Hey, I’m talking to you-!”

So engrossed in your argument, neither of you notices the patch of rotted floorboards beneath your feet, stained and bloated with water and mildew.

Something snaps under his feet.

His boot sinks into the floor.

Your heart stops.

Joel looks at you, anger melted from his face. Now he mirrors your panic - eyes wide, mouth falling open. For a moment, there’s just complete silence. Before he can bark out a command, boards shift, and then the floor cracks wide open.

A scream gets caught in your throat. Joel lunges for you, but he’s too late. His arms don’t reach you.

Then you are free falling.

Chapter Text

The ground comes fast.

You land hard, the impact rattling your bones. Plumes of dust and other particles cloud above you, choking the air. Eyes screwed shut, you cough to dispel whatever's caught in the back of your throat. Pain flares below your ribs.

"Fuck," You hiss, drawing out the vowel. Joel groans, shifting beside you. Eyes creeping open, you see a gap in the ceiling above you.

Okay, you'd both fallen through the floor. Fallen where, exactly?

You squint to survey your surroundings, using the daylight that filters through the ruined ceiling. A dark, windowless space. Water drips from somewhere within the shadows, pooling on the concrete floors. Metal pipes maze across the walls and ceiling.

You're in the building's basement.

Joel staggers to his feet, clicking on his flashlight.

"Dad! Dad-?"

His head snaps upward. He calls out to her, voice tight with fear.

"Sarah! Sarah, baby-!"

"What happened?" She peers down at you both, head barely visible over the edge. "Are you guys okay?!"

"Don't come any closer!" He shouts. "We're fine. You just - you stay up there, sweetie! Find someplace to hide 'til we get up there!"

Wobbly on your feet, you pull yourself upright and absently swipe the debris that dusts your jeans. Broken floorboards litter the ground, along with pieces of rusted piping. There's a sharp pain in your back, but you can't survey the damage at the moment. 

Could've been a lot worse, you think.

At least all four limbs are still intact.

"Didn't think to check for water damage last time you were here?" You ask, annoyed, the aftermath of your argument still simmering under your skin. "You forgot to mention there was a damn basement."

Joel doesn't say anything. He continues to peer into the darkness, eyes narrowed as he follows the beam of his flashlight. You frown. He still wants to be a dick to you, huh?

"Hey, I'm talking to-"

"Shh," He snaps, gaze still trained forward. Your brows scrunch together.

"What are-?"

"Quiet."

You can't help but notice how Joel has gone deathly still. Your stomach sinks.

What does he hear?

"Stalkers," He whispers as he carefully unsheaths his machete.

"Stalkers?" You repeat, feeling like a dumbass. What is he talking about?

Then you hear it. Feet shuffling across the floor. The flutter of debris. Joel whirls around and you follow his beam of light. It catches movement. A woman - no, an Infected, flesh riddled with cordyceps, crouched on the floor, crawling back into the shadows behind one of the pillars.

Is it... Hiding from you?

Shakily, you draw your handgun. What the hell is it doing? Why is it not charging you? You've never crossed a variant like this before.

"Get my back," Joel mutters as he slowly approaches the pillar. Fuck, he can't be serious. You feel physically sick as you shakily raise your handgun, moving behind him. Glancing over your shoulder, you look for movement in the inky dark shadows, but you can't see shit.

Joel raises his arm, muscles taut and tense, ready to swing. Your heart thunders in your ears. Your fingers have gone completely numb. You feel like you're one pin prick away from exploding out of your skin.

Quick steps behind you.

You're too slow.

Something slams into you, throwing you onto your side. You land with a grunt, vision sparking black. Your brain snaps into focus as a shadow follows you to the floor, a flurry of limbs and teeth razoring into your clothes. Joel shouts, but you can't hear what he's saying.

Adrenaline rockets through you and instinct takes over. Blindly, you point the handgun upwards, firing once. The bullet rips through the Infected - its gut or chest, you're not sure. Momentarily stunned, the thing screeches, harmed, maybe enraged, but the shot is not fatal.

Bracing your foot under its stomach, you kick upward, heaving it off of you. It goes sprawling, landing some distance away from you. Scrambling to your feet, you aim your gun and shoot it pointblank in the head. Brain and blood spatters the floor. It offers a postmortem wheeze before stilling.

"Look out!"

Joel's warning gives you enough time to swerve back as another stalker lunges for you. Dancing around it, you swiftly raise your pistol and fire. Your first shot misses, but the second and third make contact, bits of cordyceps flying in the air. It lets out a pained bellow.

It's still moving, trying to retreat back to the shadows. You can't let it. You holster your gun, preserving your last bullet, and shrug the spear off your back. Gripping the pole tightly, you thrust it forward, the blade piercing its spindly head before you harshly draw it back. The stalker crumbles to the floor.

Breathless, you whirl around, assessing the next threat. Only stillness and silence.

Joel stands some distance away, his flashlight illuminating the space around him. Three Infected are crumpled at his feet. His machete doused red. He stares at you, chest heaving, assessing you head to toe. Looking for bites.

"We get 'em all?" You ask, shouldering your spear. You're happy you nabbed it - it's quicker than your bow.

He nods.

"Think so."

You exhale your relief.

"Alright, now how do we get out-?"

A violent bang interrupts your question. You yelp, heart shooting up into your throat. Joel turns, his flashlight pointing at a closed metal door at the opposite end of the room.

He backs away slowly.

Another bang, metal indenting from the blow.

Joel's face has gone sheet white. Steadily, he sheaths his machete and reaches for the high-caliber rifle on his back. You have no idea what's behind that door, but it seems he does. You can't even bring yourself to ask. Fear ripples through your body.

You reach for your bow.

"Joel-?"

An Infected bursts through the door, but it's fucking huge - the biggest you've ever seen. Its body, swollen and misshapen, is covered with thick plates of fungus. Skull split and face completely deformed, it appears to be blind, similar to other variants you've crossed. It stumbles forward, steps uncoordinated.

"What the fuck is that?" You ask, horrified.

"It's a goddamn bloater!" Joel growls.

"A what?!"

"Get down!"

He shoves you to the ground just as a projectile sails past you. It hits the wall, exploding in a mist of toxins and God knows what else.

What the fuck-? It's throwing shit at you?

Joel's body covers yours, and for a moment, you can feel your racing heart dancing against his. Breathless, you blink up at him, dazed by the close proximity, but luckily Joel's brain isn't malfunctioning like yours. Hand latching around your wrist, he rips you to your feet, dragging you away.

"Run!"

He releases your hand, readying his gun. He pulls the trigger without wasting a breath, body taut as he absorbs the kick of the rifle. The bloater stutters from the impact.

It releases a throaty growl and fucking charges forward. You nearly piss your pants.

"Don't let it get near you!"

Say fucking less.

You sprint away from Joel, creating space between you and the monster. He does the same, retreating to the opposite end of the basement. He fires another round, the shot ripping through the air before making home in the bloater's chest. It does nothing but piss it off, it seems. You have no idea how much ammo Joel has equipped.

Adrenaline and fear clog your thinking.

"What do we do!?" You ask, panicked.

"Gotta wear it down! Shoot it from a distance!"

Shoot it from a distance.

Looking down, you realize you're still somehow holding onto your bow. OK, time to get your head out of your ass. If you want to make it out of here alive, you have to take this thing down first. You can't let Joel down. You can't let Sarah down.

Shakily, you notch an arrow, finding the bloater in your sights. At least it's a bigass target. You manage to steady your breath long enough to release a shot. It sails across the space and buries into the bloater's back. The thing roars.

Oh, shit. You actually hit it.

Oh, shit - it's running at you now.

With a panicked shriek, you dash away, just as it launches itself where you'd been standing moments ago.

"Hey, over here, you son of a bitch!" Joel taunts the bloater before nailing another headshot from across the room, drawing the agitated beast away from you.

You take the opening and send another arrow in its direction. Your second shot must've been weaker, as the arrow doesn't pierce its fungal-like armor. It must have weak spots - places on its body that aren't as overgrown as others. You can't take more than a second to assess the damn thing before it's charging you again, forcing you to retreat to the opposite corner of the room.

You and Joel exchange bullets and arrows, dodging projectiles, keeping out of the bloater's vengeful path. You don't stop, even though your breath is erratic and your lungs burn and you can feel exhaustion weaning at your bones.

The bloater staggers with each shot, and you're certain a grizzly bear would've gone down easier than this fucker. 

Using a pillar for cover, you blindly reach back for another arrow, fingers meeting air. Dread blanches your face. You're out of arrows. 

Joel has stopped firing his rifle. You wonder if he's out of ammo, too.

Then the bloater does something you don't expect.

It charges forward with a guttural roar and slams directly through the pillar. The structure collapses in a burst of concrete and rubble. 

A gasp gets caught in your throat as you stumble backwards. It rounds on you fast, cornering you.

Joel shouts your name but it's too late.

It grabs you.

You scream like hell.

Before it can rip your jaw clean off, the bloater releases you.

Falling to the floor, you blindly scramble backwards, trying to create distance between you and the bloater. Eyes clenched shut, you prepare for the final blow.

It never comes.

You peek an eye open.

Joel's machete is buried into its shoulder, the joint nearly cleaved off. The bloater lets out a pained groan, stumbling backwards. Harshly drawing back the blade, he swings it again with a yell, the motion brutal, striking directly through its fungal shell.

He doesn't stop. Lips curled and teeth bared, he hacks into it again and again, cordyceps and blood flying with each slash. The bloater falls to the ground.

You hold your breath as you watch him. You'd always been a bit fearful Joel, but this is something else entirely. Something cold and wild. Something born from survival and bloodshed. This is not a man, but a machine of raw power. He moves with fury and purpose, the veins in his forearms pulsing with each strike. Snarling like a beast, face contorting into expressions you've never worn before. Eyes terrifyingly dark - darker than you'd ever seen them.

He clobbers the thing until it's a pile of blood and mush on the floor, its spores sizzling in the cool, damp air. Huffing, he towers over it for a moment, as if he's waiting - daring for it to reanimate again. You remain on the floor, motionless, struggling to catch your breath.

Then he straightens, turning to face you.

He's covered in blood.

You expect to flinch.

You don't.

You take the hand he offers like it's the most familiar thing in the world, and you let him haul you up.

"You OK?" He asks, voice muffled by the rush of blood in your ears.

You're definitely not OK.

Absently, you reach up and rub at your upper-arm, where the bloater had grabbed you.

That was close. Way too fucking close.

The weight of it all - it crushes down on you fast and sudden. The adrenaline wooshes out of you as you brace your hands on your knees, bending over. Staring at the floor, you focus on not puking all over your boots. You barely feel the hand ghosting the small of your back.

"Define OK?" Your voice wobbles.

"Still breathin'?"

"Uh, think so." You straighten, sparing a glance over at the large Infected. "What the hell was that? I've never seen anything like it."

"It's been infected for a long time. We call 'em bloaters."

"Bloaters? And the others? The ones that hide?"

"Stalkers. Hunt you from a distance then attack once you're close enough."

Bloaters? Stalkers? What's next - Infected with fucking wings?

"Cool," You respond with a bite, trying to camouflage the tremor in your voice. Quickly, you collect your arrows, heart thrumming in your chest as you yank them out of the bloater's body and stow them into the pocket of your backpack. "Now can we get the hell out of here?"

He eyes you for a moment, like maybe he's expecting you to crumble and curl into a fetal position on the floor. You probably would if your body wasn't so flighty. You meet his gaze as he challenges your bravery. If he asks if you're OK again, you'll definitely puke on his boots.

Thankfully, he holsters his machete instead, nodding towards the stairwell.

"C'mon. Through here."

"Sorry about today."

Sarah catches you in the living room. You'd skipped dinner that night, your stomach knotted too tightly to keep anything down. Instead, you settled in front of the fireplace, knees hugged to your chest, staring idly at the flames as the sky grew dim.

The drive home was a bit of a blur. You were still jittery, leg bouncing up and down, fingers curling into tight fists. Gaze fixed out the window, you had a difficult time focusing on the world around you. Instead of admiring the pockets of green buds and early batches of wild crocus, your mind was preoccupied by the things that usually occupy your dreams - sharp nails and cordyceps and blood and the weight of another body pressing down on you; hard, harder until you can't breathe-

Then something nudged you. Glancing over, you saw that Sarah had fallen asleep, body slumped, head perched on your shoulder. You inadvertently relax, not wanting to disturb her, and spend the rest of the drive back in quiet stillness.

"Sorry?" You release your knees, sitting cross-legged. "What have you got to be sorry for? It wasn't your fault we fell through the floor."

Sarah's finger idly traces a loose thread in the rug.

"Yeah, but... The museum was my idea..."

Her voice is quiet, a mix of guilt and shame. You can't stomach it.

"Hey, nobody knew that basement was down there." You tell her firmly. "It's nobody's fault. Shi- stuff happens."

She's still not convinced. You exhale softly.

"Listen, before I nearly got my head torn off my shoulders, I had fun today."

She peeks up at you.

"Yeah?"

"It was a good day. Best I've had in a long time." You tell her honestly. A day without hunger or death - yeah, that's a pretty damn good day in your books (your bar is pretty low, but you don't tell her that). "Thanks for inviting me."

She smiles, body sagging with relief. Then she straightens, remembering something.

"Oh, I got you somethin'."

"What?" You raise a brow as she digs into her pocket. "It's your birthday. Pretty sure I was supposed to get you something."

She shrugs.

"Got one for myself, too. Found them in the giftshop."

Two bracelets sit in her open palm. Tiny beads strung together in a line of thin cord, the ends knotted to keep them intact.

"They're friendship bracelets. Or at least, that's what the sign in the shop said." She explains before plucking the green one, holding it out for you to take. "I thought you'd like this one. I got the blue one for myself."

You blink at her.

"You... Got this for me?"

"Yeah. I thought they were cool. I mean, we're friends. Aren't we?"

Friends.

She wants to be your friend.

You can't find words. The gesture is so touching and sweet and it makes you want to barrel headfirst into the fireplace because this isn't something you deserve.

Gingerly, you take the bracelet, using your thumb to trace the smoothed texture of the beads. She helps you tie it around your wrist, then you do the same for her. Grinning, she holds her out next to yours, rotating her wrist so the beads catch the amber light of the fire.

"These look awesome,"

"They do," You agree, swallowing against the lump clawing up your throat. "Thank you."

She flashes you another easy smile. Nonchalant, like her sweet gesture hasn't completely rocked your world sideways.

"Well, I'm pooped." She rises to her feet, lazily stretching her arms over her head. "Think I'm gonna call it a night. I'll see 'ya in the morning."

You bid her goodnight, wishing her another quiet "happy birthday" as she makes her way out of living room, leaving you by yourself again.

Absently, you fiddle with the bracelet, something warm nudging through the thick fog of dissonant thoughts. 

Whatever you'd gone through earlier that day, it suddenly all seems worth it. Just to see Sarah so damn happy.

Releasing a slow breath, you carefully stretch your neck, body cranky with quiet aches. This day was a fucking whirlwind, and you realize you're quite tired yourself. You pray the dark of a dreamless sleep will pull you under for at least an hour to two. 

Rising from the couch, you linger in front of the mantle, absorbing the soft pulse of heat before you decide to retreat to your couch-bed.

"You're bleeding."

Joel's voice cuts into the silence. You find him standing under the doorway, watching you with that sharp, careful gaze of his.

"What?" 

You turn and follow his line of sight, finding it pinned to your lower back. He's staring at the reddish-brown splotch that stains the fabric of your henley. You tried to assess the damage in the bathroom, but it was hard to see in the mirror. It throbs faintly, but the bleeding has staunched, so that was good enough for you. 

"Oh. I'm fine. It's not bleeding anymore."

A shadow crosses his features.

"You bit?"

"What? No-"

"Show me." Something lethal has leaked into his voice. "Now."

"Jesus, okay," You turn around and reach back, yanking the hem of your shirt upward, flashing him your bare middle back. The open air makes your skin ripple, and you can feel his gaze rake up and down your torso. You grow embarrassed, and you're grateful he can't see your reddening face.

Several beats of unbearable silence pass. You release your shirt, letting it cover your midriff again.

"There. Fucking happy?"

Rhetorical question, of course. Joel's never fucking happy.

He doesn't say anything. You wish he would. Instead, discomfort lingers between you, like a third person in the room.

Then he turns and disappears into one of the backrooms, and while you think he's turned in for the night, he reemerges seconds later with a medical kit.

He nods towards the couch.

"Sit."

You blink at him.

"What?"

"Needs to be cleaned."

"I told you I'm fine."

"You're not." He huffs out a low breath. "'Sides, Sarah'd probably be pissed if I let you die from an infection."

Infection? It must look worse than it feels. It hurt when you fell, but you'd hoped it was something that would just heal on its own. Sighing, you seat yourself on the couch. The sooner you get this over with, the sooner he'll leave you alone.

Joel settles beside you, the cushions shifting from his added weight. He places the medical kit on the coffee table and unlatches it. At a glance, you see rolls of medical tape, gauze, a suture pack, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, bandages.

Where did he get this stuff?

Joel clears his throat, uncomfortable.

"You mind-?"

"Right," You blush, pulling your shirt up until it's rolled up around your shoulders.

For a while, he doesn't do anything, which makes this suffocating silence ten times worse. Then you feel warm fingers, gently prodding at the skin around your wound. You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to leap off the couch and dive into the nearest river.

"So tell me, doc. Am I gonna make it?" You ask, voice tight, desperate to break the tension.

"Don't need stitches," He explains, voice low. "Got some splinters I need to dig out, though."

You blanch.

"Wonderful."

You hear him digging into the kit, before muttering a quiet warning, something along the lines of: "might sting." He swipes something cool and wet against your wound, and shit - it burns. Fingers clenched into fists, you endure it, happy to deal with physical pain rather than the anxiety that swirls in your gut.

"What happened?"

"Must've landed on something when we fell." You answer with a clenched jaw.

Joel offers a noncommittal grunt. You can feel him moving in close, breath fanning your bare skin as he inspects your wound. Then, gently, the tweezers tug at your skin, pulling splinters loose. Closing your eyes, you try to steady and lower your breathing, fighting the shudder that wants to rip through your body.

Something nudges your arm.

"Here,"

You look down and see a metal flask in his hand.

"Oh," You cautiously take it from him. "It doesn't hurt that bad."

"No," He says distractedly, reaching for the tweezers again. "Just figured you might want a drink."

Snorting gently, you unscrew the flask and peer inside. Dark amber liquid sloshes within, greeting your nose with a familiar sting. He has whiskey, too?

Bringing the flask to your lips, you take a sip. It burns going down, pooling warmly in your belly. The liquor's effects are near immediate - it dulls the sharp and rusty edges of your thoughts.

Joel continues to work, the crackle of the fire filling the silence between you. You try not to think about his fingers touching your naked skin, but he handles you with a gentleness that doesn't make sense. Hours ago, he was brutally hacking into a seven-foot bloater. Now those rough hands were healing you - soft and careful and warm.

You take another pull of whiskey, drowning whatever is fluttering in your belly.

That rage-fueled version of Joel - it sits with you, a splinter that can't be fished out; wedged between your ribs. Still, seeing him like that - it doesn't make you fearful of him.

If anything, it makes you curious.

When Joel announces he's finished, you yank your shirt down and scoot away from him, eager to create distance. Chin dipped, he quietly packs up the kit, brown-framed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose- hold on, he wears reading glasses? Before you can say anything, he slips them into the pocket of his flannel, but the damage has been done. He looked... God, don't even go there.

You expect him to leave, but he doesn't. He seems to sink deeper into the couch.

So you offer him the flask.

His brow twitches, but he accepts it. Bringing the flask to his lips, his throat bobs as he takes a large swig. He lowers the flask with an exhale, swiping the back of his hand against his mouth. He passes it back to you but you don't immediately take another drink. You stare down at it, fiddling with the aluminum cap.

"You saved my life today," You murmur. "I suppose I should say thank you."

He shifts on the couch.

"If you did, I'd say you mighta suffered a head injury."

Fuck, you can't help it - you chuckle softly, before trying to disguise it as a cough. The whiskey's got you off your game.

"You've fought one before," You ask, but it comes out like a statement. "A bloater."

"Yeah,"

"You're good at... Fighting those things."

Odd compliment. Is he supposed to say thank you? He nods absently and leans forward on the couch, fingers threading together. He stares down at his hands in quiet contemplation while you consider finishing off the whiskey in three swallows.

"I thought it was really cool what you did for Sarah. Bringing her to that museum." You say softly. "You know, making her birthday matter."

"She deserves to be a kid." He says simply.

You couldn't agree more. You think of every child stuck in this shit-awful world and mourn the lives they'll never get.

"My nephew. He was just a kid, too." You find yourself saying. "His parents stopped celebrating his birthday after the outbreak. Just didn't seem as important to them anymore. His mom tried, I think, one year, but my brother put a stop to that."

Joel sits there and listens, eyes not as guarded as you're used to seeing. So you keep going.

"Him and I, we used to be close. Drifted apart as we got older, but something got into him after the outbreak. He was never the same again. Had something to do with his time in the military, probably. I think he was more comfortable with the end of the world than he should have been."

You're not sure why you're telling him any of this. Maybe because you didn't have anyone to tell this to. Sarah may be your friend, but shit's too dark for a thirteen year-old.

To your surprise, Joel breaks the silence.

"Your community out in Georgia. What was it like?"

"Oh, um," You stutter, not expecting him to ask you something like that. "My brother and his family, we found it by accident. It was a small town - so small that FEDRA hadn't bothered evacuating after the outbreak. More trouble than the journey was worth, I suppose. There were about 100 of us before, uh... Yeah. We had lots of land, crops, animals. Managed to wire our own power grid. Had a school for the kids. Town gatherings and all that."

"What happened?" He asks.

"Same thing that always happens," You mutter after a long pause. "None of us had ever seen a herd like that. Didn't know they traveled in packs larger than half a dozen. We weren't prepared. It didn't take long for us to get totally overrun."

He sits with this information for a while, his gaze fixed on the fire. Flames on warm honey. You wish you could peek inside his head, know exactly what the hell he was thinking.

"I need to know that there's places out there." He speaks up, voice barely audible. "Places that are good for her. People that are good."

You set the flask on the table between you, folding your arms across your chest.

"We left the QZ because it wasn't safe. Started headin' north to look for my brother, but found this place instead. I know we can't spend the rest of our lives here. I can't..." He exhales a slow breath, and you can feel something crack open within him. A vulnerability he's not comfortable with, maybe. "I know she needs more than I can give her here."

It's the most he's ever spoken to you. You listen intently, breath practically halted, not wanting to miss a detail.

Then he bows his head, and it's the smallest Joel has ever looked.

"That day. Out in the woods. She could've died," His voice cracks, just slightly. It makes your chest pull tight. "I could've lost her."

You took Joel for a man who never had to rely on anybody for anything. It made sense as to why he was always resistant to your help, adamant he does things his way. Each stolen glance, dark with distrust; you'd cower away, keep your head down, work harder, hoping to change whatever was wired in his brain to detest you. Try to ignore the way it simmered like acid under your skin, eating away at you.

You could never figure out why he hated you so much.

Until right now.

The sentiment is clear in his eyes.

You saved her when I couldn't.

He didn't hate you. He hated himself.

It's an abrupt realization - one that hits you hard and knocks your heart sideways. You feel something soften within you, a hard fist unfurling, fingers spread wide, inviting the weight of another.

Okay sure, you may have misunderstood him, but he certainly didn't make it easy for you. Truthfully, you'd both been stubborn - stubborn but afraid, for different reasons.

You stare dully at the cabin wall. The whiskey feels like it's already dissolved out of your system.

"Where will you go?" You ask quietly.

"Last I heard from my brother, he left Dallas and was heading for Utah. Figured I'd start there."

"That's a long way from here."

"I know," His jaw muscle clenches, like he's battling the walls he wants to put back up. "I know. And Sarah's not ready for that. Not yet. But when she is, I'm gonna get her there. I'm gonna get her somewhere safe."

Something comes over you, something that wants to cling to the small piece of trust he's shared with you.

"I'll help." You blurt.

Joel doesn't say anything, but you can see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, followed by a dark cloud of uncertainty. Why risk your neck for a couple of strangers? The question is written all over his face.

You glance down, thumb grazing the smoothed beads of your bracelet.

Not strangers.

A friend.

"I was planning on heading west, anyways." You say, though that was still a half-assed plan. "You could use another set of eyes to watch your back. I'll help you get her where you need to go. Then we can go our separate ways."

You offer a hand to shake. In it, a fresh slate. A promise.

Joel eyes it like you carry some contagion, and you resist an inpatient huff. You're offering your blood and muscle and breath and he still has to make it such a chore.

Finally, he reaches out, hand clasping yours. You inhale a quiet breath through your nose, trying to ignore the way your skin sparks from his touch (clearly you've had too much whiskey).

You're about to pull away but you can feel his grip tighten. Shadows under his eyes. Joel's original declaration still stands.

Put us in harm's way and I will not hesitate to put you down.

You meet his deadly gaze with your own defiant glare this time.

I won't.

Chapter Text

"Would you rather lose all your hair or lose all your fingernails?"

Well, that's an easy one. Fingernails are tools. Weapons. Your hair has only ever been a hindrance - overgrown and tangled, beckoning to get snarled in low-hanging branches or twisted within an enemy's fingers.

"My hair, for sure."

"Really?" Sarah eyes you from the horse's saddle, her frame bobbing with the horse's steps. "But then you wouldn't get to braid it, anymore."

"I wouldn't have to," You correct her with a grin. "Besides, who have I got to impress?"

"I'd lose my fingernails. I already bite them off, anyways." She answers with a shrug. "Okay, your turn."

The three of you (and Cinnamon) hike through the woods, Sarah seated on her saddle while you and Joel walk alongside her, eyes dancing around the perimeter for potential threats. You relaxed a couple miles in, bow held loosely in your grip as you stepped over fallen branches and mildew-rotted logs.

Thick canopies of leaves block your view of the bonny blue sky. With winter over, the forest is bursting with green foliage. A gentle, warm breeze teases through the hickory trees and prickly brushes. Sunlight peeks through the open pockets, like spotlights, illuminating patches of bee balm and meadow flowers. Butterflies flutter their cashmere wings, collecting pollen.

You're grateful for the abrupt change in seasons, eager to leave winter and all its hardships behind.

Your spring days are spent outside; hunting, collecting firewood, and helping around the garden. Rainy evenings shut you indoors, where you fill the hours washing dishes (Joel still won't let you cook), reading one of Sarah's old books, or playing board games.

Rainwater fuels their garden, and green stalks have already begun to curl up from the soil. With Joel's help, you plough more land, planting seeds, mostly pumpkin and squash, and re-wire the fencing to keep the critters out.

It doesn't bring the two of you any closer. You work side-by-side in silence, the space between you filled by the gentle raking of metal through dirt, the occasional thwip of Cinnamon's tail, or the chitter of birds overhead.

On a particularly balmy morning, Joel interrupts your labor and actually offers you a glass of water. Mumbling gratitude, you take it from him and catch the scent of the Earth on his skin, mingling with something vaguely familiar - aftershave, maybe? Whatever it is, it draws your insides tight, provoking an uncomfortable flutter in your belly. You didn't like it. The rest of your afternoon was spent on the other side of their property, aggressively ignoring Joel and scrubbing your laundry in a suds-filled bucket.

Though you certainly hadn't expected to become BFFs with the guy, you thought he might be a little more willing to open up to you. You still don't know much about him, other than the tidbits of information Sarah nonchalantly reveals.

Before the outbreak, Joel was a contractor, apparently. It explains why he's so damn handy around the cabin. Did some woodwork, too.

You'd caught him a few times out by the garage, perched on a tree stump, sharpening his knife. Upon closer inspection, you realized he was actually carving the blade into a slab of wood, brows furrowed in concentration as tiny, curled shavings littered the forest floor. You never got to see any of the end products, because when he'd catch you watching him, he'd level a hard stare and ask "need somethin'?" (which you knew actually meant "fuck off").

It's nice to know Joel has hobbies. Humanizes the bloater-slayer that sits across from you at the dinner table every evening.

Sometimes you'll still find him sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night, wrought with insomnia, but as the weather gets warmer, you find that he prefers to sit outside on the porch, examining the dark stretch of forest in front of him.

On his promise to prepare Sarah for the trip to Utah, Joel decided to take her out for target practice today. He allowed you to tag along at your request. Having not received much gun training yourself, you hope you're able to pick up some tips.

To pass the time, you taught Sarah the game Would you rather? Though it took her a while to grasp the concept. "Why would I have to choose between having four ears or two noses?" Kids growing up in the apocalypse, and all that.

Joel opts out, of course, since he's allergic to fun.

You purse your lips outward, eyes tracing the sky as you think of your next question.

"Would you rather... Dip your fries in mayo or lick the bathroom floor?"

Sarah giggles.

"How gross of a bathroom floor are we talkin' here?"

You smirk evilly.

"It's disgusting,"

She pretends to weigh her decision, a smile teasing at her lips.

"You know I'm still not picking the mayo, right?"

You shake your head, making a tsk noise with your tongue.

"That's too bad. I can tell you it's not as bad as licking the bathroom floor."

"I guarantee even my dad would choose the bathroom floor."

"You Millers are so dramatic, I swear." You peek at Joel from around the horse. He's pretending not to listen, gaze trained forward. "Can take on a bloater but afraid of a little mayo?"

His eyes snap to yours, hardening when they meet your taunting smirk.

"What's the point of this game, again?" He asks gruffly.

"It's fun," Sarah points out, jumping to your defense. "Why don't you try one, dad?"

"I'll pass."

"Oh, come on." She straightens in the saddle. "I got one for you. Would you rather give up your Willie Nelson or Hank Williams cassette?"

A low chuckle emits from the other side of the horse. It startles something loose inside you.

"Now that's just cruel." He says, breathy with laughter. You find yourself wishing the horse didn't separate you, wanting to see the smile you could hear in his voice.

God, you're getting soft.

The three of you eventually break the treeline. Miles of green stretch in front of you, the low hills twisting into ripples of rocky terrain. You admire the expanse of green for a moment, collecting the open air in your lungs.

"Whatever noise we make should be contained between these hills." Joel explains, satisfying the paranoia that had niggled in the back of your mind. "Let's leave Cinnamon here. Don't want her to get spooked."

"Aye, aye." Sarah carelessly slides off the saddle, drawing an exasperated sigh out of her father. He ties Cinnamon's reins by a patch of tall grass, giving her muzzle a pet before moving to the saddle bag. He pulls out a small firearm, heaps of extra ammo (his haul from the school must've been better than you thought), and a stuffed burlap sack.

The three of you trek a little further into the grass field, settling in front of an overturned tree.

"Alright, what's the first rule?" Joel asks.

"Handle every gun like it's loaded." Sarah answers automatically.

"And what else?"

"Finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot."

"Good," He hands her an empty handgun and a fully loaded magazine. "Let's see it."

She snaps the mag into place and releases the side lock. The noise clicks in your spine with uneased familiarity. She quickly double checks that the safety's engaged, always keeping the muzzle aimed downward.

"Again,"

Sarah repeats the motion backwards, engaging the lock before dumping the mag into her palm, checking the safety even though she hasn't touched it. You watch, brows drawn upward in equal parts incredulity and awe.

Kid knows what she's doing.

He pockets the mag and has her show him her stance; feet shoulder-width apart, arms extended to account for the recoil. Reaching out, Joel tries to snatch the gun away, a tactic to test her grip. Sarah passes, holding the gun with a solid, two-handed grip.

Satisfied, he has her lower the gun and walks some distance in front of her, about 100 yards, and assembles a burlap sack dummy with an X at the center of it. As he makes his way back, Sarah squares off with the target, shifting into her stance, but Joel stops her.

"Gonna have you try the rifle today."

Sarah's eyes go wide with excitement

"Oh, sweet!"

He frowns at her enthusiasm.

"Hey, what do I tell you?"

"It's not a toy," She mutters. "I know, I know."

Joel swings the rifle from his shoulder and kneels behind the log beside her. He levels it, body pressing into the firearm, demonstrating how to hold it.

"You wanna really lean into the stock 'cause it's gonna kick a hell of a lot more than your pistol."

She nods fervently, drawing a light frown from Joel. You can tell he hates this - having to teach his daughter how to handle a firearm. That she may have to carry the burden of killing, some day. The cold reality of being a parent in this world.

"Hey," Joel's voice carries over their lesson. "Ever shot a rifle before?"

You point to yourself.

"Me?"

"No, the horse." He says, laying the sarcasm on thick. You blush, embarrassed and annoyed, suppressing the desire to flip him the bird in front of his daughter.

"Uh, sorta."

He huffs out his nose as he shoots you a "what the fuck does that even mean?" look. You don't choose to elaborate, and he continues to stare at you, brows furrowed, like you're a puzzle he can't figure out.

"C'mere. Gonna have you show her, first."

Shit. You should've just lied.

You swap places with Sarah and settle on the ground beside Joel, heart pounding like a jack hammer in your chest. You're about to make a total ass out of yourself.

Collecting your breath, you align the rifle with the overturned tree and hug the stock to your shoulder, trying to mold your body to the unfamiliar firearm. Peering down the scope, you blindly feel around for the focus knob, adjusting it until the sight is clear and sharp. Okay, and how do you release the safety again...?

Joel's voice drifts into your ear.

"Thought you said you shot one before."

Heat crawls up your neck.

"Well it wasn't like this." You hiss.

He sighs, the noise limned with something like regret. He shifts closer, practically seated beside you, and fuck - you can smell cedar and soap and feel the fabric of his flannel brush against yours and for some reason is makes your heart race even fucking faster.

You're suddenly burdened with a memory. Mark's body folding over yours, the two of you seated amongst a field of swaying prairie grass, voice kind and patient and warm as he walks you through the mechanics of his hunting rifle.

Sweat builds above your brow. Your muscles tighten.

Mark is dea-

"Pull the bolt back," Joel's voice, careful and patient, brings you back into your body. Blinking, you reorient yourself, watching his finger tap the bolt handle. You try to follow his instructions but the part sticks, not budging.

Then his hand covers yours, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Your pulse roars in your ears.

You need to calm the fuck down.

"Grab it right here, and just tug it back." He instructs, but you can't make sense of the words he's saying because he's still touching you. All thoughts - thoughts that would be useful right now - run blank.

His hand curls firmly over yours, taking control. Your breath shivers. With his guidance, the cartridge automatically ejects.

"Now the trigger's just-"

"I know where the goddamn trigger is." You snap, overwhelmed. He lets out a sharp breath, something like a scoff, before moving away from you.

"Coulda fooled me."

Ignoring his insult, your gaze narrows through the scope, adjusting until the burlap sack is centered in your crosshairs. Holding your breath, you tense up as you prepare for the recoil, and fire the gun. The shot echoes across the valley, the noise piercing your eardrum. The dummy remains untouched.

"Wide right," Sarah announces before lowering her binoculars. She shoots you an apologetic look. "Sorry."

"You're flinching," Joel says, tone flat.

"Your scope's all fucked up," You mutter, cheeks flushed. "I had that thing in my crosshairs. The sight must be off."

"Ain't nothin' wrong with the scope." He observes your stature with a frown. "You're too tense."

"Yeah, well, you stress me out."

"Won't ever hit your target like that. Don't flinch. Absorb the recoil."

"And dislocate my damn shoulder?"

"You guys bicker like an old married couple."

You freeze. Beside you, Joel does the same.

Oh, Christ.

She did not just say that.

An old married couple?

The word married has your brain going haywire. Your mouth drops open, scrambling for a defense, but Sarah's not even looking at you. She's got the binoculars held up to her eyes, aimlessly scanning the horizon. You realize she'd thrown the statement out so casually, having no real weight behind the words. A joke, obviously - like it was beyond imaginability that you and Joel would ever be like a married couple.

Right. Just a joke.

Joel clears his throat, brushing off the awkward hesitancy to continue your lesson. He doesn't look angry, atleast. Just... Uncomfortable.

"C'mon, let's go again. Get another round in there."

Ignoring your fluttering heart, you tug the bolt handle again, slotting a new round.

"Try to relax."

"I am," You insist, but it feels like your fingers have gone numb.

"Deep breath in, breath out on the release. Nice and slow." He instructs. "Then squeeze the trigger like you love it."

"Shouldn't I ask it out to dinner first?"

He rolls his eyes, mutters something like "smartass," under his breath. Instead of combatting him, you feel a pinch of guilt below your ribcage.

Listen to him, the rational corner of your brain whispers. Stop being so goddamn stubborn. He knows what he's fucking doing.

You release the breath you didn't even know you were holding in, shoulder molding firmly against the rifle's stock. Finding the target in your sights, you try to wipe your mind blank, save Joel's words, echoing like a voice in the dark.

You release a slow breath, then you squeeze that trigger like it's your best fucking friend.

The shot booms across the valley. The target jolts, tufts of burlap floating into the air.

"Hell yeah! You got it!" Sarah cheers as she lowers the binoculars, shooting you a thumbs up. "Nice one!"

Lowering the rifle, you feel exhilarated. The feeling lights up your entire body, warming your blood. You engage the safety before turning to face Joel, lips stretched into a wide smile. Expression neutral, he simply offers you a slight nod of acknowledgement, but if you blinked, you might've missed the muscle twitching near his lips, eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Better," He says brusquely, not allowing the moment to breathe. You blink. What the hell are you so excited about? Get it together. It wasn't that impressive of a shot.

"Right," You clear your throat, passing off the rifle. "Thanks."

His gaze lingers on you a moment longer before he turns to find his daughter. "C'mon Sarah. S' your turn."

She takes your place, giddy despite her father's gruff insistence that this weapon is not a damn toy.

The afternoon passes in a slow, pleasant crawl, the three of you sitting amongst swishing grass and distant crickets. The sun dips lower, a gold haze blurring the edges of the valley, casting the world in a honeyed light.

You listen to Joel's lesson, voice softer than it has any right to be, using the binoculars to inspect Sarah's progress. She cracks jokes, mentioning something about "giving the Terminator a run for its money." You laugh.

It feels like peace.

The evening fire is low. You watch the embers crackle in the hearth, orange flames leisurely swallowing the charred wood. With the days getting warmer, keeping the fire going outside of cooking meals is no longer a necessity.

Freshly bathed, you lie across the sofa, head cushioned on your pillow. Shifting onto your back, you stare up at the ceiling, watching the amber light dance across the wooden beams.

The cabin is quiet. Sarah has gone to bed, but Joel lingers in the kitchen. The faint light from his lantern doesn't quite reach you, but you can hear the occasional clatter of metal pieces on the hardwood table as he strips his handgun.

Sleep won't come to you. You don't feel like rereading the book Sarah loaned you.

With a quiet sigh, you push yourself off the couch, swiping your backpack from its spot on the floor.

Pausing under the doorway, you watch Joel work. He's got those goddamn reading glasses on, perched at the end of his nose. The handgun lies in several pieces on the table, along with a bottle of lubricant and an old rag.

Your presence is immediately noticed. His gaze flickers over to you, head tilted so he can look at you over the top of his frames. It almost startles you. He looks disarmingly normal, like he oughta be reading the paper or drinking coffee instead.

You watch one another in the dim lighting, cautious, like two predators sizing one another up. Waiting for the other to make the first move. Is this interaction going to be cordial? Or are you looking for a fight?

The silence continues to build between you. You break it first.

"Hey," Well, that felt stupid to say. Hey? Really?

He stills in the chair. Eyes narrowed, skeptical. Clearly he wasn't expecting that either.

"Somethin' wrong?"

You shake your head, gesturing to the bag in your hand.

"Was just thinkin', I've never cleaned my gun before, and I see you do it a lot." You swallow, jaw flexing. "Think you could show me how?"

He stares at you like you've grown a second head.

"You don't know how to clean your gun? My 13-year old daughter knows how to do that."

Well, being cordial with one another lasted about three seconds.

"Okay, dick. Sorry I didn't grow up in Texas."

Releasing a sigh, he nudges the empty chair with the toe of his boot. A silent invitation. Steadying your breath, you sit down, backpack slumped at your feet. You fish out your gun and place it on the table.

"Know how to unload it?"

You roll your eyes.

"Yes, I know how to unload my gun."

You empty the cylinder, letting the sole bullet clatter onto the hardwood table. He takes the emptied gun from you, observing it with a squint of his eyes. Then he reaches for the toolbox at his feet, digging for the appropriate-sized screwdriver.

"Wanna make sure you get the right size or you might damage the screws." He explains, ensuring you make note of which screwdriver he's chosen. "Flathead should work."

Carefully, he begins loosening the grip panel, body angled towards yours so you can see what he's doing. You watch him remove the plate screws, sorting them in a neat line.

"See, these ain't all the same size. You'll be in a world of hurt if you mix these up, so keep 'em separate and organized."

You hum quietly in acknowledgement, committing the words to memory. But then he pauses, shooting you a glance over the top of his frames, like he's debating what to show you next. He shoves the half-dissembled gun into your hands, along with the screwdriver. You take them, eyebrows raised apprehensively.

"I'll walk 'ya through it."

And so Joel guides you through the process, fingers occasionally brushing yours as he prods the revolver, explaining the mechanics and purpose of each individual part. You listen to his gravelly drawl. You ask him questions. He patiently answers them. You're focused, but at some point, your mind wanders, taking note of how odd this is. How close he's sitting next to you. How soft his eyes look.

So you stay quiet, afraid you might shatter whatever temporary spell Joel seems to be under.

The revolver lies completely stripped in your hands. Your thumb brushes the ridges of the metal cylinder. You palm it, cool against your flushed skin.

"I didn't bother learning any of this," You murmur quietly. "Didn't think I'd have to. They had to basically drag me to my first lesson. Never liked guns, much. Still don't. I learned how to use my bow so they'd get off my ass about it."

Despite your brother's heavy military background, you never so much as touched a gun before the world ended. Guns are violent. Soulless. The pre-outbreak world was violent. The post-outbreak world demands more violence.

Looking down at your hand, you notice a slight tremble.

"I know I'm not like you. I know I'm not built for this world. Every time I've fired that gun, it feels like I've lost a part of me." Your voice drops, low and weak. "How do you not let that get to you?"

He doesn't answer. Silence fills the room, sucking out the air around you like a vacuum. You don't voice your vulnerabilities - especially to Joel. So why the hell did you feel the need to speak up now? Guy offers to show you how to clean your gun and suddenly you're singing your sins like you're in a confessional booth. He's not saying a goddamn thing, and now you feel like an idiot. You feel too raw. Too exposed.

Before you can fling yourself out the front door and never return, he speaks up.

"That man at the school. Was he the first?"

"No," You shake your head. The memory curdles and sours under your tongue. "Someone I knew, he got bit. Asked me to do it before he turned."

His brow twitches with something soft, like solemn recognition. Does Joel know the weight of mercy in a bullet?

You wish you hadn't said anything. Sighing gently through your nose, you reach for the rag, dabbing the fabric with the lubricant before swiping it along the metal pieces. You can feel him watching you, and you half-expect him to tell you that you're holding the rag incorrectly.

When Joel's voice comes, it's heavy with a burden you can't see, but can feel it fill the air between you.

"I don't let it get to me because I can't. I have to keep going. For her. For family."

Family.

You wince.

"And if you have no family left?"

His gaze hardens, and you catch another glimpse of that fury that stirs within him, with nowhere to go, burying deeper, deeper.

"I pray to God I never find out."

You don't cower from his fire. It's born from love. Forged to protect.

"She's lucky to have you." You say honestly. "Me? I'm just, I'm-"

"Someone who's survived this long on her own." He finishes for you, eyes flashing with quiet intensity. "Someone who will keep doing what needs to be done. You've killed. You'll kill again."

You stare at him, mouth open like you might deny it, but you don't. Really, what are you supposed to say to that?

Because he's right. It knocks something loose in your chest, sinks like a weight down your belly. For a moment, you wonder what Joel was like before the outbreak. You'd caught glimpses of it; flickers of dim light through a keyhole. A man who unabashedly loved 80s movies and had a woodworking bench set up in his garage. Someone who drove his daughter to soccer games on the weekends.

You find yourself mourning that version of him you'll never get to know.

"You kinda suck at cheering people up."

He scoffs, but there's no edge. In another life, it might've been laughter.

"Well, I ain't tryin' to cheer you up."

The corner of your lip turns upward, just slightly. You reach for the rag and begin polishing the outer metal, letting that quiet smile linger on your face as you work. You both settle into a comfortable silence, neither of you feeling the need to fill it with words.

After you've finished cleaning the pieces, Joel shows you how to put it back together, which seems to be a lot more difficult than taking it apart. Some time later, you stare down at your assembled revolver, turning it this way and that. Freshly polished. Heavy. Like you can feel the weight of a skull pressed against the muzzle. You place it on the table.

"I don't regret what I did in that school." You murmur, forcing the words out like they're rocks in the back of your throat. You dare a glance over at him, lashes low. "I'd do it again. Doesn't mean I'll forget."

He meets your gaze, face unreadable.

"I'm not askin' you to."

Your breathing catches.

Something threads between you; a quiet acceptance. Frayed, barely there - but real.

You've changed. You'll continue to change, because you're a survivor.

And Joel accepts this fucked-up version of you. Maybe that makes him fucked-up, too.

Maybe you don't care.

Chapter Text

You wake up in a good mood.

Not the kind of good mood that makes you want to throw open the window sill and sing to all the forest critters. No, this was subtle - a step above neutral, maybe.

A full night's rest probably helped, but it felt like a bit more than that. The sun hasn't quite risen yet but you can feel it sitting under your skin. Imagining the possibilities of the day instead of dreading them.

Survival made little room for emotions beyond indifference or grief. That's changed since you arrived at the cabin. You don't feel forced to keep your guard up. Sarah has helped tease a bit of joy for life again.

While you can't necessarily say the same for Joel, he's given you something else: purpose. You are a part of something. A tiny community you help build and sustain, the evidence taking form each night when you collapse on the couch, limbs sore, too tired to scrub the garden dirt out from under your fingernails.

Stretched out on the couch, you peer around the cabin. Through the slant of the curtains, you can see the sky is bruised with purple and pink. The fire crackles gently in the hearth, and you can hear the faint clucking of the chickens through the cabin walls. The only thing that would so sweetly accommodate this morning would be a cup of coffee.

Coffee.

Rich, aromatic. A curl of foam. Brewed hot and served in a chipped ceramic mug.

A primal need that'd been unmet since the world fell apart.

Fuck, you'd do terrible, embarrassing things for a cup of coffee.

Knowing your caffeinated needs won't be satiated, you get up and swiftly get ready for the day. The bedroom doors are still closed, so you move about the dimmed cabin as quietly as possible. Your long hair (you're still overdue for a cut) is fastened into a single braid, the tail brushing the small of your back.

Once you're dressed, you step outside and scoop water out of the rain barrel, splashing it on your face. It shocks your cells, and it's the closest thing you can get to a caffeinated jolt. Cinnamon greets you with a wicker, and Cluck Norris has already escaped the coop. You ignore the bird menace and make your way off the property, equipped with your bow and spear.

You're not sure where you're going. You pass familiar groves, tangles of green, worn trails; areas of the forest you're now well accustomed with. There's no destination in mind. You just walk.

The area is bursting with wildlife. Squirrels and rabbits skitter through the underbrush, drawn away by the crackle of leaves and sticks under your feet. You don't bother with stealth - you're not out here to hunt.

The sun is mid-sky when you emerge from the edge of the woods. The rays bounce against your skin, warming your bones. In the distance, you catch the sharp light reflecting off the surface of water - a river twisting through the tall grass.

You walk alongside the river, admiring the round stones smoothed by the current, and the murky shadows that dart just below the water's surface, the glimmer of their scales occasionally catching the sunlight.

The river leads you to a single-story house. You can tell it's been abandoned - the front door hangs ajar and overgrown weeds have sunk their roots into the porch stairs. Still, you approach the house with an arrow notched, fingers curled over your bowstring.

Before entering, you loudly knock your boot against the front door. Then you shuffle backwards, drawing your bowstring taut, and aim at the doorway.

Waiting, waiting; holding your breath as you do.

You count to 60.

When no Infected come ambling out, you decide it's safe enough to step inside.

It reminds you a bit of the cabin - less maintained, of course. The space is grayed with dust. The floorboards are softened with rot and moss. Black ash coats the abandoned hearth.

Rage, maybe grief, hangs in the air. Curtains are torn cruelly from the sills. Ceramic plates are smashed. There are two, fist-sized indents on one of the doors.

Once you are certain the house is no longer occupied, you begin a more thorough search of the space.

In the bedroom, you find folds of fabric inside the drawers of a hardwood dresser. It's a mix of men's and women's clothing, including large t-shirts, wool button-ups, and floral blouses that have no business being worn out in the middle of the woods. You take them anyways, stuffing what you can into a duffel bag you'd discovered in the closet.

Moving to the kitchen, you find most cabinets had been emptied, while anything left behind was sufficiently expired. You're about to leave when you notice something on the counter.

A piece of paper. A note, specifically.

Ben,

I can't do this anymore. I can't spend another day in this godforsaken house with you.

I almost blew my brains out while you were sleeping. Then I thought about blowing yours out. If I wasn't such a coward, I would have. Lord knows I've dreamed about doing it for years.

I hated you before the outbreak and I hate you now. I should've listened to my mother - God dammit, she was right about you. But I ignored her. I was ready to give up everything for you. And for what? All the screaming and the fights and the bruises. Was that love to you?

I doubt I'll survive the trip to OK City, but it beats spending the rest of my life here with you.

Don't come looking for me. You won't find me.

Leslie

PS - I took your prized fishing trophy and I plan on throwing it into the river.

"Jesus," You murmur before placing the note back on the countertop, a bit of nausea curling low in your gut. You try not to paint the picture the letter has planted into your brain. Fists and fights and violence.

An unsettling feeling blankets over the home, making bumps rise on your skin. You don't belong here. It's time to leave.

The duffel bag bumps against your hip as you quickly exit the home, bypassing the bottom porch step that had collapsed upon your entry. You're about to leave but you spot a small shed, nestled just behind the house. Slowly, you approach it, spear shrugged from your shoulder.

Inside, you find lawn tools and other random objects, coated with sawdust and cobwebs. Rakes, shovels, a rideable mower, empty gas canisters, clay garden pots... Mostly useless.

Then propped up in one of the corners, something familiar.

A fishing rod.

You take the pole, rotating it in your hands. You crank the reel a couple times, winding the fishing line.

A feeling, halfway between memory and mourning, washes over you. It tugs you in two directions. Bittersweet. You try to cling to the sweet. The sound of pebbles shifting under boots. Palms hardened with callous, gentle against your skin. Golden-hued valleys. The rush of a river.

You smile softly.

It's a good thing you know how to tie a fisherman's knot.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Joel greets you with a growl. You freeze under the doorway, alarmed by his aggression. You hadn't even expected him to take notice of your disappearance.

He pushes himself up from the kitchen table and approaches you. He's got that usual, pissy expression on his face, but there's something else there. His fingers flex by his side. Shoulders wound with tension. Hazel eyes slicked with... Panic?

"Didn't realize I had a curfew." You reply calmly, eyes narrowed as you set the duffel bag on the floor. You gesture to the tree you'd strung the fish up in. "Caught dinner."

He doesn't say anything. No "thank you" or "oh, you shouldn't have." There's no flicker of gratitude in his eyes. He just continues to stare at you like you're a fucking idiot.

Irritation courses through you. Ungrateful bastard.

Whatever. You turn on your heel, about to walk off.

"It's Sarah."

Your stomach swoops. You face him again.

"What? What's wrong?"

After a long moment, he exhales through his nose.

"She's been in the bathroom all afternoon. Shut me out. Says she's fine but doesn't wanna talk about it." His gaze drops, then he awkwardly clears his throat. "Figured it might be..."

He can't bring himself to say whatever it is. You cock an eyebrow.

"Might be what?"

He sighs again, like he'd rather be battling ten bloaters than having this conversation with you. When he speaks again, his voice is low, accent thick.

"Might be... Lady troubles."

Your lips fix into an amused smile.

"Lady troubles?"

He glares at you as you fight the grin on your face. You've seen this man hack his way through Infected and take down cannibalistic brutes but this is what makes him uncomfortable? It's so painfully dad that you can't help but snicker.

"What?"

"Oh nothing, nothing."

He huffs out a breath, embarrassed. You're tempted to push his buttons - to tease him more about it, but when you catch his eyes again, you can see he's a mix of desperation and concern.

For the first time, Joel looks lost at sea.

Clueless, but trying his best.

It clutches your heart in a way you don't expect.

Joel, on the other hand, looks fed up. He turns to leave but you stop him. Your hand latches onto his bicep, briefly curling around the warmth beneath his flannel.

He freezes beneath your touch, and you quickly draw back your hand as if you'd been burned. You can feel yourself blush, the air between you growing thick and warm. He simply stares at you, expectant, his face characteristically unreadable.

Well, that was new. Since when are you not afraid to touch him?

You eventually find your words.

"I'll try and talk to her."

His expression shifts, brows furrowed slightly.

"What?"

"Well, last I checked, I was a lady. I might know a thing or two about what she's going through."

He doesn't say anything. Instead, his eyes move over you, assessing you in that way he always seems to; like he's calculating your next move, theorizing your motives. Lips pressed tight, he looks like he might object, but when you move past him, he doesn't stop you.

You can feel Joel's gaze burn into you as you approach the bathroom. Steadying your breath, you lift your hand and tap your fist against the closed door.

"Hi, Sarah." You speak against the wood. "How you doin' in there?"

Her response is muffled.

"Fine."

You nod as if she can see you. She's not giving you much to work with. Might as well get straight to it.

"Is it okay if I come in?"

There's a long pause before she responds.

"Okay,"

You carefully push open the door and slip inside, closing it behind you. You find Sarah sitting on the closed toilet lid, hunched, elbows resting on her knees, face buried in her palms. Her head lifts at your entrance, and you shoot her a small smile before taking a seat on the floor, legs crossed.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You want to let her control the conversation.

"Where were you today?" She asks eventually, seeming to want to fill the silence.

"Went out and caught us some fish for dinner. Figured I'd give the squirrels and the rabbits a night off."

You try to disarm her with crappy humor. She doesn't take the bait. Her eyes narrow slightly. Closed off, suspicious.

"Did my dad make you come in here?"

"Actually, no. Pretty sure if he had it his way, I wouldn't be in here."

She looks back down at her fingers. The nails thoroughly nibbled.

"Are you scared of him or something?"

"No," You respond, surprising yourself. Well, you're not scared anymore. Just minutes ago, you'd reached out and touched him, like it'd been the most normal reaction in the world. You recall the subtle shift of his muscles, the way they responded to your touch.

You shake your head, clearing the thought from your brain.

"I think... I just don't really know how to talk to him."

"You could try talking about Hank Williams." She offers lightly. "That's his favorite artist. He also loves playing the guitar. Maybe you guys could talk about that."

Guitar, huh? It fits the image of Joel you've constructed over the past few months. A Southern man, through and through, strumming country ballads on his six-string, a wad of chewing tobacco stuffed behind his upper lip.

Too bad you preferred listening to the Spice Girls and Beyonce.

You flash her a wiry smile.

"Noted."

She touches a hand over her abdomen. The atmosphere in the room shifts.

"I woke up and... I was bleeding." She confesses quietly.

You understand immediately. It's not the kind of bleeding produced by a knife slash or a gun wound. It's the kind that came from mother nature being a real bitch.

Her eyes briefly flicker to the opposite side of the room. Following her line of sight, you notice the crumpled ball of fabric shoved in the corner. The sheets from her bed, torn from the mattress, like she'd been trying to hide the evidence from her father.

Oh, boy. How should you approach this? Maybe you should've planned some kind of speech before coming in here. Though you assured Joel otherwise, you suddenly don't feel qualified to give a lecture on a girl's changing body. Surely it's a parent's job to teach kids about the birds and the bees-?

"I know about sex." The embarrassment is evident on her reddening cheeks. "I'm not stupid."

You nod, watching her eyes fall, like she's ashamed to hold your gaze. She doesn't want to be lectured. Doesn't need to be.

"Right. Then you know that this is something that's going to happen again. About once a month, cramping and bleeding." Sarah's face goes redder. "It sucks, but it's good to be prepared. Keep track of your cycle, if you can. We don't have the luxury of tampons or pads these days. I make due with a rag or washcloth. Not ideal, but we work with what we got."

She's quiet with the information. You wonder if she imagined having this conversation with her mother one day. The thought makes your stomach tight.

"Do you... Have any questions?"

She looks like she wants to disappear down the bathtub drain. Okay, maybe you're not so good at this.

You begin to stand.

"Alright, why don't you lie down for a bit? Take the couch. I'll go ahead and clean these sheets for you-"

"No!" She squeaks, eyes wide with fear. "You don't have to do that."

"It's fine," You assure her. "Believe me, I've been there before. Not a big deal."

Sarah's wide-eyed expression doesn't shift. You've seen this girl handle a high-caliber rifle. For the first time, she looks her age. It disarms you a bit.

You lower yourself back on the floor.

"You know, I was at school when I got my period. About the same age as you. Bled through my pants. It was so embarrassing. Luckily my friend looked out for me and let me know before anyone else noticed it. I spent the rest of the day with my sweater tied around my waist, praying for an asteroid to hit the school."

"When I got home that day, I didn't even tell my mom about it. I kept it to myself, like I was the only person ever to experience a period. Silly, right? But God, it felt so traumatizing back then. Like my world might end if I told her what happened."

You reach out, squeezing her knee once.

"Anyways. I'm happy you felt comfortable enough to tell me. I wish I had done the same when I was your age."

She doesn't say anything, eyes still holding a bit of fear. Shit, you're probably making everything worse. You should probably just shut up.

Rising to your feet, you collect the bundle of fabric into your arms, ensuring the blotch of red is carefully concealed. You place the sheets into the tub before moving towards the door. Cold water and detergent should do the trick.

Sarah's voice, paper-thin, stops you.

"Thank you."

The sound squeezes your heart.

You say nothing. Instead, you hold up your arm, beads jangling as you flash her the friendship bracelet around your wrist.

Her lips twist into a small smile before she shyly returns the gesture.

"She talked to you."

Joel's voice draws your attention away from the half-flayed bass in your hands. You glance up to see him awkwardly standing over you, arms crossed loosely across his chest. Thankfully, he doesn't look angry. Just uncomfortable, like a child being forced to apologize for throwing rocks in the playground.

You focus back on cleaning the fish, biting back the surge of smugness you feel.

"She did."

He shifts his weight. Your abrupt response must irritate him. His follow-up question is ground out through clenched teeth.

"What'd you say to her?"

"Like I said, I know a little bit about what she's goin' through." You set the fish on the stone beside you, along with your carving knife, before giving him your full attention again. "You want the gory details? When a man and a woman love eachother-"

"I'm familiar with the act." He snaps.

Joel's response sends an unexpected jolt through your body. You ignore it.

"I'd be concerned if you weren't."

The silence stretches, broken by your sigh.

"Sarah's a smart kid. I didn't have to say much. But she's getting older. She'll start keeping things to herself. From you. She might shut you out. It's best not to press her when she does."

You can tell he doesn't like what you're saying. An uncomfortable truth he doesn't want to confront.

His gaze hardens.

"You're not here to tell me how to raise my daughter."

"I'm not," You agree. "Just trying to give you advice. Take it or leave it."

He mutters something under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "I'm no good at this stuff. My old man never taught me how to be a father."

Your breath catches. A piece from Joel's past; spoken loosely, like an afterthought. A memory he'd buried long ago.

He has a brother. A fractured relationship with his father. But whatever negligence he'd received from his childhood had no hold on him now. Being a parent, it was a sacred duty that Joel took seriously. To love and protect his daughter.

As much as the man irritates you, you can't deny that he's a wonderful father to Sarah. For some reason, you feel the urge to assure him so.

"You're doing your best. She's a great kid." You pause. "Weirdly enough, I think you had something to do with it. You sure she's yours?"

He makes a noise in the back of his throat - laughter, maybe?

"I ask myself the same question all the time."

Oh, is this banter? You feel a weird, lighthearted mischief lighting up your body. He usually only reserves this side of him for Sarah. Never you.

"I suppose I should thank you." He says.

"If you did, I'd say you might've suffered a head injury." You recite his words with a soft smirk. "Maybe this settles the score, Miller."

A crease forms between his brows.

"Don't know about that. I saved your life."

"Well, I saved you from having tampon talk with your daughter. I'd say that makes us even."

Joel visibly blanches at the word tampon and you amusedly roll your eyes. Does he have to be such a guy?

The conversation stilts. He clears his throat, looking to change the subject.

"You know how to clean those?"

You shrug, glancing at the dissected fish beside you.

"Good enough. Might be pickin' bones out of your teeth 'till next Tuesday."

He nods once, letting his arms fall back down by his sides. A silence builds, but this one feels less tense. Companionable, even. Accompanied by the gentle crackling of the bonfire. 

You sneak a glance up at him, wondering what he's thinking. 

The fading sunlight warms his features, softening the edges. Something quieter, calmer paints his features in a way you hadn't witnessed before, and for a moment, it feels like you're suspended in some kind of weird dream.

"I'll fry 'em up."

He abruptly breaks the silence and stomps away. A furrow pulls between your brows. You watch him go, leaving you to wonder if you'd imagined that lightness in his gaze.

Chapter Text

You wake to complete silence.

That's not normal.

You're used to being roused by the gentle sizzle of oil frying in a pan, quiet chatter in the kitchen, the clank of ceramic, floorboards creaking as Sarah and Joel move about the cabin. Instead, the sun nuzzles you awake, peeking through the slant in the curtains. Dust hangs in the air, undisturbed. Pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, you take note of the slight chill inside the cabin. The fire in the hearth has died out.

Something's wrong. The feeling churns in your gut, hot and fast.

You sit up, kicking the blankets off your legs, reaching for the knife shoved under your pillow. You cross the room quickly, bare feet soundless against the hardwood floor.

Fingers tightening around the handle of your knife, you suck in a breath and burst into the kitchen, eyes rapidly scanning the space in front of you.

Joel's sitting at the table, back hunched, staring down at hands, fingers knotted together in a loose fist. He's just sitting there, looking at nothing in particular, seemingly lost in his own head. It's a peculiar sight - his fingers are always busy; whether they're buried in soil, or procuring slow, even strokes with his knife against hunks of wood. You're not used to seeing him do nothing.

His eyes find the knife in your hand. They question you darkly.

You blush, realizing you're still dressed in your pajamas - an oversized t-shirt (his or the previous owner's, you're still not sure) and a pair of raggedy sweatpants.

"Sorry, I, uh," You scramble for some excuse, not wanting him to think you're a complete nutjob. "It's just... Quiet."

He lets out a steady breath through his nose, shoulders lightly sagging.

"I'm lettin' her rest. Think she mighta caught somethin'."

"Oh," You hadn't expected that. The other day, Sarah complained of a scratchy throat but you dismissed it as allergies. Your gut twists, anxiety pulling deep inside you. "Is it bad?"

He doesn't meet your eyes.

"She'll be alright."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He doesn't answer. Doesn't want your help, per usual. While you might've typically brushed him off with a petty eyeroll, this feels different. Not just lady troubles, either. You can see it in the heavy bags under his eyes, glassy with exhaustion. Muscles wound tight with no way to make use of them. He's not used to this - circumstances that are out of his control.

He wants help. He doesn't know how to ask for it.

"You know, my community used wild nettle to make tea. We used to give it to all the sick folks." You explain. "I always cross a patch of them in the woods. Could round some up, see if she's in the mood for it when she wakes up?"

The room stills, holding its breath. Joel tenses, a muscle below his cheekbone flickering. It's not like you need his permission, but there's a part of you that wants him to accept the hand you're offering him. To remind him that you're here to help, dammit.

He looks away, but you catch it.

A slight nod of his head. A quiet noise of assent in the back of his throat.

"Okay," You say gently before backing out of the kitchen, excusing yourself.

You quickly dress yourself in the bathroom and restart the fire before venturing outside, bow strapped over your shoulder, handgun tucked into your waistband. Cinnamon has ventured out of the garage, head stretched over the wired fencing as she tries to nibble at some of the corn stalks. You smirk at her efforts and give her a pat as you pass her.

Mid-morning, there's a crackle of heat in the air, accompanied by the low hum of insects and the chitter of birds in the trees. You don't stop to admire any of it, ignoring the squirrels that flicker in your peripheral. Each step you take is purposeful as you recall the correct pathway that'll take you to that batch of wild plants.

You'd witnessed waves of sickness in your community, but they were less common given how isolated you were from the rest of the world. It hit the elderly the hardest - you recall one particularly nasty bout of the flu that resulted in two deaths.

You're certain Sarah will be fine. Kids always bounce back.

The patch of nettle sits between groves of aspen trees. You pull your gardening gloves out from your backpocket and begin collecting bunches in your palm.

Satisfied with your haul, you backtrack to the cabin, but not before checking the snares. They yield two rabbits. You take them and promptly reset the traps.

Back at the cabin, you string the dead rabbits up on a low branch and begin assembling a fire in the outdoor pit. While the flames build, you pluck the nettle leaves from their stems. Using some water from the rain barrel, you gently soak them, washing away the dirt and bugs. Then you fill a pot with water, letting it boil over the fire.

Your efforts produce a pot-full of herb-steeped tea. You bring it inside, placing it on one of the coiled stovetop burners. Carefully, you pour some of the amber liquid into a mug, a familiar aromatic steam curling around your nose as you do.

Joel's nowhere in sight, and you don't want to disturb Sarah, so you leave the mug on the kitchen counter.

The rest of your afternoon is spent out in the garden. You pull weeds (which turns out to be a wonderful method for releasing your pent-up anxiety) and harvest the vegetables that are near ripe. Your haul is a handful of cherry tomatoes, three scraggly carrots, and a pathetically small onion.

You take note of how unnaturally quiet everything is while you work. Even the chickens are silent, remaining inside their coop for the entirety of the afternoon. If it weren't for Cinnamon, you'd feel like the last being on Earth.

The sun dips lower and lower and there's still no sign of Joel or Sarah. In the kitchen, you can see the door to her bedroom cracked open, and hear the low rumble of his voice within. You can't hear what he's saying.

You stare down at the basket of vegetables, teeth worrying your bottom lip.

Everyone likes soup when they're sick, right?

Opening cabinets, you take inventory of the food Joel has stocked, frowning as you do. You don't want to heat up stale soup in a can.

Fuck it. You'll make homemade soup. You have a recipe closely committed to memory - one that doesn't require broth. It'll be like chicken noodle soup. Without the chicken... Or the noodles.

Moving throughout the kitchen, you pull out jars of spices and a large soup pot, setting a cutting board and knife on the counter. Carefully, you dice the onion and carrot, fumbling a bit before you feel yourself ease into practiced motions.

It's soothing - the rhythmic knock of the knife against wood. You enjoy cooking. Always have. Of course you had to relearn it, in a way, left without the luxuries of a working oven or a microwave. Gave you more opportunities to be creative, you supposed.

You saute the diced vegetables and add sprinkles of parsley, basil, pepper, and thyme. Then you toss in the pieces of rabbit before filling the pot with water, stirring everything together. At the last minute, you toss in a handful of brown lentils you found in the back of the pantry.

The soup bubbles over the fire grate, filling the cabin with a rich, earthy aroma. While it boils, you scrub the dishes, gently washing away the dirt that's stained your fingers.

"What's this?"

Joel's voice floats into the kitchen. You find him lingering under the doorway, hesitant to enter, like he's expecting the room to detonate.

"Dinner." You answer flatly.

"You cooked?"

You remove your hands from the sink, wiping them dry on the front of your pants.

"No, the horse did."

His mouth twists into a scowl and you immediately feel terrible. His daughter's sick. He's probably had a shit day. You don't need to be a bitch on top of it. Sighing, you quietly pass him and transfer the soup pot into the kitchen. You grab a set of mismatched bowls from one of the cabinets before fishing out spoons from the utensil drawer.

"She up?"

He nods.

Carefully, you ladle the soup into three bowls.

"If she's feelin' up to it," You nudge two of the bowls in his direction. "It's rabbit and lentil."

Without waiting for his response, you take a seat at the table and begin eating. The broth tastes close to how you remembered it - maybe a bit more gamey with the rabbit. It warms you, and the only thing that might make it better would be some crackly bread to dunk into it.

Joel continues to stare down at the soup like it's offended him. You're halfway finished with yours when he finally picks up one of the bowls and walks into Sarah's room, closing the door behind him.

A small smile tugs at your lips. It feels like a victory.

You're helping yourself to a second bowl when he reemerges. Wordlessly, he occupies the seat across from you and picks up his spoon. Skeptically, he tastes it, avoiding your gaze as he does. You watch him carefully, looking for a reaction, but he maintains a neutral expression.

Well, at least he didn't puke it up.

The two of you eat together, the sound of spoons scraping against ceramic filling the silence that Sarah normally occupies. It's weird without her - she's the one that bridges any conversation between you and Joel.

Occasionally, you peek at him from across the table. Brows lowered, he hides behind quiet stoicism. But you can see the unease he carries. You see the tension in his body; muscles coiling tightly beneath his button-up every time he hears Sarah cough.

When he's finished (after he's had a second helping, you note smugly), you offer to clean up so he can go check on his daughter. He sends you a curt nod of his head (the man still can't stomach a simple thank you, apparently) before disappearing down the hallway.

The sky's dark by the time you finish cleaning. You're not sure what to do with yourself, so you retreat to the living room and grab the book Sarah loaned you. You try reading but you're distracted, eyes glazing over the same paragraph three times before you catch yourself.

Unannounced, Joel enters the living room. You lower your book.

"She's, uh, askin' for you."

"Oh. Okay."

Pushing yourself up from the couch, you follow him down the hallway but he veers off into the kitchen, allowing you to enter the room alone. Cautiously, you push open the door.

Your breath hitches.

Sarah looks terrible.

Sitting upright in her bed, she's swathed with every spare blanket in the cabin. Her face is pale, sheen with sweat, illuminated by the dimly lit lantern on her bedside table. Dark crescents bruise below her eyes. A stand of hair is plastered to her forehead. Whatever illness she caught, it was hitting her hard.

"Hey," You greet her, pulling a chair up beside her bed. "How are you feelin'?"

"Like crap," Her voice is hoarse, her breathing too shallow. She nods to the half-empty bowl on her nightstand. "You made the soup, didn't you?"

You nod.

"I did,"

Her chapped lips turn up into a weak smile.

"I can tell. There's actually flavor. It's good."

You snort.

"Well I'm glad you liked it."

"I'm telling my dad that you should be the one that cooks from now on."

"Oh, don't do that. You might break his heart."

She gestures to the mug beside it.

"This tea sucks, though."

You wince. You know firsthand that nettle isn't known for being sweet.

"I know. I wish I had some honey for you. Keep drinking it. It'll make you feel better."

She groans. Without thinking, you reach forward and smooth that wild strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin is warm. Too warm. You hand her the mug, helping her fingers curl around the ceramic, beckoning her to take a sip.

While she drinks, your gaze casually wanders the space, and you realize this is the first time you've seen Sarah's room. Like the rest of the cabin, it's minimally furnished, though you find pieces of her sprinkled throughout. A shelf lined with books. A teddy bear shoved between her mountain of pillows (maybe from a last minute attempt to hide it before you walked in). Souvenirs from the museum, including a magnet, a faux leather-bound journal, and a postcard occupy the bottom shelf of her nightstand. A line of wooden figurines are arranged on top of her dresser, and you realize they must be Joel's handiwork.

You take the mug when she's done drinking. She tries to sit herself up higher, nose scrunched in discomfort, before sinking back into her pillows.

"So what'd I miss today? Did Cluck Norris break out again?"

You tell her about your day, letting Sarah know you wouldn't dare brave the coop without her by your side. She smiles.

"Do you want me to read you one of your books?" You ask.

"No. I've read all these books." She lets out a soft wheeze. "You tell me a story."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Tell me something from your old life."

Old life. Before.

You take a breath, trying to ease the discomfort that presses into you like a thumb on a bruise. Ignoring the voice in the back of your mind that screams "what's the point?!"

"One time I lost a sock at the beach."

"Good story."

You smirk gently at her sarcasm.

"When I was a kid, my family drove all the way down to Florida for a vacation. We spent one afternoon on the beach. Towels laid out, with our cooler and our snacks. Well, this pesky seagull kept trying to steal my peanut butter sandwich. I got so fed up that I kicked sand at it, spooked it away. Thought I'd won. Later when we packed up and made our way back to the car, my mom goes: 'Honey, isn't that your sock?' That same seagull was flying above us, a pink-striped sock in its beak. My sock. I didn't even notice it'd taken it. I chased it up and down the boardwalk, trying to get it back. It was so embarrassing."

The memory warms you, soft and tepid, even though you feel a pinch of pain when you think about your family.

"So did you get your sock back?"

"Nope. The little bastard won."

Her chapped lips fix into a faint smile.

"That's a silly story."

"Yeah. Was never a big fan of birds after that."

"Maybe that's why the chickens don't like you."

"Hey, I think Yolko Ono is warming up to me."

Sarah's smile drops.

"I've never been to a beach." She admits, quiet and sad. "I've never even seen the ocean."

The coil in your chest twists tight, clenching your heart. It's cruel - all the things Sarah will never get to experience. The taste of salt in the air. The joy of battling the current and riding the waves with your body. The exhaustion at the end of the day, Too tired and sun-soaked to wipe the briny sand from out between your toes.

"We could go."

Something glimmers beneath the fog of sickness. She sits a little taller.

"Really?"

"Sure." Your lips curl, a bit forced. "One day."

What the fuck. Why did you say that? Why are you breathing life into a promise you don't know that you can keep?

All you know is that she looks so goddamn broken and you'd make a deal with the devil if it meant this kid never felt another ounce of sadness or pain in her life. That you'd stupidly surrender a limb to see that sparkle in her eye again.

Sarah opens her mouth to speak but starts coughing instead, the noise harsh and ragged. You watch helplessly as she curls into herself, making herself smaller, like she can hide from it.

You reach out to rub her back in slow circles, hoping to soothe. Her clothes are sweat-soaked, and you can feel the burning skin over the fabric.

Her body continues to convulse, tears streaming down her face as she gasps for air. This is beyond your average cold. Something wicked runs through her veins. Your anxiety amplifies, jaw clenched so tightly it feels like the muscles might snap. What can you do but watch her suffer through it?

Joel bursts into the room, and you quickly move aside, giving him space. He seats himself on the bed and folds his body over Sarah's, holding her until her coughing bout mercifully ends. He murmurs in her ear, "what do you need? Tell me what you need."

The helplessness in the room is thick, suffocating. Grimacing, you look away. Your gunshot wound didn't hurt this bad. This kind of pain was too deep to bleed.

You quietly excuse yourself, murmuring that you'll heat up some tea.

It takes a few minutes for the tea to reheat over the fire, but even from the living room, you can hear Sarah coughing, the noise twisting your gut.

You're about to re-enter her room when you hear her voice. You linger in the hallway.

"Daddy," She says in a low whimper, tears crowding her voice. She sounds afraid.

"I know, baby. I'm here." Joel mumbles, emotion thick in his throat. Sheets rustling as he cradles her to his chest. He shushes her pained moans. "I got you."

You back away, abandoning the tea in the kitchen.

Movement in the kitchen stirs you awake - not that you'd been sleeping well anyways. You find Joel standing over the table, hands planted on the surface, carefully observing the unfurled map in front of him. Brows furrowed. Mouth flattened into a hard line. Concentrating on the maze of topographic lines.

He doesn't tense as you approach him. Something weighs him down - something heavy. Something like defeat. Desperation. You can see it.

You've seen it in your own face.

"She's gettin' worse," He mutters, eyes not leaving the map. "She's burnin' up. Can't keep anythin' down. She needs medicine."

You're guessing he doesn't have any in that mysterious stockpile of his.

"What're you going to do?" You ask.

"There's a clinic I haven't checked, 'bout 40 miles out." He explains. "I'm gonna head out at first light."

You bite your lip. You want to help.

"I'll back you."

"No," He immediately objects. "Someone needs to stay with her."

Your voice comes quiet but steady.

"Then I'll go myself."

His eyes flicker up to yours. Searching. Questioning your intent. 

Your gaze doesn't waver.

"You're her father. She needs you here." You swallow thickly and force a humorless smile. "And if I die, you'll have only lost a day, right?"

Something crosses his face, too quick for you to catch before he smooths it away. His gaze lowers, mouth twisting into a frown as he inspects the map again. He doesn't like this plan, but you can see that he also really doesn't want to leave Sarah.

"I haven't traveled this way yet. Don't know what's up there."

Your gaze lowers, tracing the winding lines printed on the map. Reaching forward, you tap your fingernail across an expanse of green.

"I'll take the horse. Cut through the valley. Quieter that way, too."

He still doesn't seem convinced. Like he knows you're fronting a lot more confidence than you actually have. At the end of the day, you have nothing to lose. Joel does. This plan makes the most sense, even if he won't admit it.

"Make me a list," You mutter, turning to leave. "I'll get you what you need."

His arm shoots out, hand coiling around your bicep to stop you. Your heart jolts, not expecting the contact. Brows pulled together, you turn to stare at his hand before your head tilts upward, meeting his gaze.

He's struggling to let you go. To trust you with this.

You flash him another shaky smile.

"Hey. I'm quick, remember?"

He shifts his weight, mouth tightening, as if carefully selecting his next words. Then his grip tightens around your arm, dark eyes flashing with something you can't name.

"'S not just your life you're riskin'."

"I know that."

After a long pause, he exhales through his nose, releasing your arm. Then he shrugs the rifle from his shoulders, the same one you'd used for target practice, and shoves it into your arms. His prized firearm. Willingly offered. The gesture is not lost on you.

"You remember where the safety is?"

Your fingers curl firmly around the stock.

"I remember."

Chapter Text

"Okay, girl. I think I got the hang of this."

Cinnamon chuffs (in agreement or dissent, you can't tell), as she moves into a light trot, a much more comfortable rhythm. You shift, sitting deep in the saddle, hands loosening around the reins.

Hours of riding has your thigh muscles on fire. You're not the most confident rider, and you know Cinnamon can tell. It takes a few miles for you to adjust to one another, and thank God she's patient enough to not have bucked you off.

The sun hadn't yet crested when you left the cabin. Now it sits mid-sky, amongst dense white clouds. The wind has picked up a bit, the occasional gust blowing through the folds of your jacket. Every few miles, you pull out Joel's map, along with the compass he'd loaned you, trying to make sense of the direction you're going like you're fucking Paul Revere. You were already directionally challenged when MapQuest still existed. Now you're absolutely clueless. You try to stay oriented with the crest of a nearby state park, using it as a kind of guiding star.

You catch your eyelids drooping and force them wide open. It had been a sleepless night for the three of you. Joel lingered in the kitchen long after you'd turned in. Occasionally, you'd hear the creak of wood, followed by the light pad of footsteps as he'd walk down the hallway to check in on Sarah. You spent your night staring up at the ceiling, anxiety knotting tightly in your belly, too worked up about today to sleep.

Her symptoms hadn't improved. Her fever seemed to worsen, and she'd been unable to shake that wracking cough. Quiet moans to accommodate the aches. Throat scraped raw.

Joel had written down a list of supplies for you to look out for - IV bags, painkillers, antibiotics... You're surprised he knows about all this stuff. Should a contractor be familiar with Tetra...CYclines? Shit, you can't even pronounce most of it. Maybe Joel used to be a dealer. A drug pusher. A sad, old drug pusher (eat your heart out, Tina Fey).

Eventually, you cross the expansive valley and find yourself riding down a back road. It's quiet, minus the low whistle of the wind and the clop clop of Cinnamon's hooves against the pavement. You force your tense shoulders to loosen, trying to silence the overworked part of your brain that screams "something bad's coming!" But so far, nothing.

Finally, you spot a faded road sign. Hospital: 5 Miles.

Thank Christ.

The road takes you to the clinic. The one-story building sits amongst overgrown landscaping and drooping willows. Cars are scattered around the abandoned parking lot. It appears deserted.

Sliding off the saddle, you leave Cinnamon by a patch of tall grass and cautiously approach the property.

There's movement near the entrance. Ducking behind one of the cars, you peer over the hood, surveying the area.

You count at least four Infected, but that doesn't mean there aren't more inside. Fuckers. You're going to need to do this quietly.

Bow drawn, you fire an arrow at the closest Infected. It whistles through the air before spearing cleanly through its brain, its body dropping with a thump. You swiftly repeat the action, taking each one down before carefully approaching their bodies, pocketing your arrows. Compared to the rabbits and squirrels, Infected feel like much easier targets.

To make it back by nightfall, you calculate that you can spare about an hour or so at the clinic. You have to move fast. Sarah may not last another night. The thought physically sickens you. A deep breath bays the bile in the back of your throat.

You can't fail her. You can't jail Joel.

Bypassing the front doors, you make your way to the south side of the building. Medications are probably locked up in one of the backrooms. Somewhere cool and dark. Without windows, maybe.

Back pressed against the wall, you circle the building, arrow notched as you search for another way inside. You eventually find an open window and pull yourself through it.

The interior is dark. You switch on the flashlight Joel loaned you.

You're in one of the hospital rooms. Wiring messily coils around the floor. Monitors sit idle, long dead. A chair is tipped on its side. The stretcher is mercifully empty, but the padding is stained with old blood.

You check the emptied cabinets before moving on.

The hallway branches out to several hospital rooms, each of them as empty as the first. You suppress the urge to slam the cabinet door shut, frustration thrumming under your skin like a living thing. Don't lose your shit. Keep looking.

Finally, you find an unmarked door. You try the handle, but it's locked.

Nothing is ever fucking easy, is it?

You move through the halls like a phantom, steps careful and precise, following the twists and turns of the facility. You're looking for a supply room. Something staff-only. A rung of keys. You're digging through the pockets of a discarded lab coat when you hear it.

A faint wail, carrying through the dark.

Shit.

Clickers.

A chill crawls over your skin. They don't sound close, but they don't sound far, either. Your instinct is to run for the nearest exit. Jump ship.

No, no, no. You came all this way. You need to find something.

You continue your search, pausing at each corner and crux of the hallway, listening for movement, but it's difficult to hear over the roar of your pulse. The tension has your body wound tight. So tight that you feel like fucking screaming to get it over with because this feeling is unbearable. At least a gun to your head would be quick.

Thankfully, you find a set of keys without incident, left on a hook in the custodian's closet. Doubling back to the locked door, you force each key into the slot until one sticks, carefully turning the handle and pushing your way inside.

You're not alone.

The beam of your flashlight catches a leg.

Pulling your bowstring taut, you prepare to fire an arrow.

But it's just a corpse. It sits on the floor, back against the wall, fungal growths cementing it to the surface. You survey it with a grimace. You've seen this before - an Infected lying dormant, consumed and calcified by the fungus until they can no longer move.

You can't help but wonder why they were locked in here. Judging by the decay, it must've been early days when they were bit. Were they forced in here to quarantine until others got help? Only to be forgotten or abandoned, left to die, succumbing to a slow rot? The coldness in that thought leaves you a bit queasy.

Moving around the body, you continue to investigate the space. The back walls are lined with glass-front shelving. In the cabinets, you can make out rows of bottles. Pill bottles. Opening one of the display cases, you carefully match the labels to the words Joel scribbled on your list. You grab the antibiotic and hug it to your chest.

"Thank fuck,"

You shove what you can into your backpack, filling it to the brim with medication, sterile wraps, IV bags and tubes, and other supplies still sealed in their packaging. Then you stuff more into your pockets. This is not a trip you want to make again.

You're reaching for a bottle of painkillers when a jar slips from the shelf. It falls to the floor, breaking on impact, shattering like a gunshot. You inhale sharply.

A beat of silence.

Then to your left, a wet crunch.

Dread anchors in your stomach.

You whirl around.

The Infected has unpeeled itself from the wall. It's lunging for you.

It shoves you to the ground, silencing your scream, and clamors on top of you like a rabid dog. It's all limbs and teeth, burrowing into you like it's trying to rip open your ribcage.

You panic. You flail. Your legs kick uselessly beneath you, trying to find purchase on the floor, but you can't get any leverage from this position. There's no crying for help this time - Joel's not here to save you. You're alone.

Wedging your forearm under its chin, you use all your strength to push it away, baying its gnashing teeth. Adrenaline pumps so furiously through your veins that it's difficult to think. Where are your weapons? Your pocketknife is buried beneath rolls of gauze. You can't reach any of your arrows from this position. Shit, you have to use your gun.

With your free hand, you pull the handgun from your waistband, fixing the muzzle against its skull. Sucking in a breath, you clench your eyes shut.

And pull the trigger.

The noise seems to split your ear drum.

You feel a spray of liquid. Bits of bone and cordyceps fly in the air. The Infected stutters before falling limp, crushing its weight on top of you. You quickly push it off, trying to shake the high-pitched ringing in your ear. Your vision wobbles. It stuns you for a moment.

A cold realization breaks your daze.

Every Infected in the building will have heard that gunshot.

You need to get the fuck out of here.

Scrambling to your feet, you teeter against the wall before running for the door, flinging yourself into the hallway. Somewhere to your left, there's screeching, snarling; monsters emerging from the dark. You take a sharp right and dash through the facility, guided only by memory and the flickers of light from your flashlight.

The rasping seems to grow louder, like a storm of cicadas building behind you. Consuming everything in its path. You have no idea how many there are. You don't risk the assessment. Fighting in such tight quarters will surely get you killed. Instead, you pump your arms faster, praying your adrenaline-riddled brain can remember which room you originally entered.

Somehow, you find it. You run inside, not bothering with the door, and clamor for the open window. Vaulting over the sill, you land on your shoulder, but you don't feel a goddamn thing. There's snarling. Snarling above you. They're not stopping. You can't stop.

Springing to your feet, you plow through the overgrown hedges and make your way to the treeline. Cinnamon - where's Cinnamon? Where did you leave that goddamn horse? If she isn't where you left her, you swear to Christ you'll turn her into a pair of boots.

But she's still there. That sweet, lovely horse is there, munching on grass without a single care in the world, and you could fucking kiss her if you weren't running for your life.

Without slowing, you launch yourself into the saddle and fumble for the reins. The leather digs into your palms as you harshly snap the reins, digging your heel into her side. She whinnies, a bit resistant, but takes off in the direction you lead her.

The wind whips across your face as Cinnamon carries you, hooves pounding against the dirt. Glancing over your shoulder, you expect to see maws of sharp teeth. Mutated fungus. Flailing limbs. A hoard of clickers and bloaters.

You don't see any of that. Only a valley of green.

A breath loosens from your chest.

You lost them.

The horse slows to a trot and you let her. Occasionally, you'll glance over your shoulder, making sure the hoard hasn't followed you. A crowd of birds flies overhead. The wind has died down.

You can't believe it.

"I did it," Tears of relief, hot and fast, spill down your cheeks. "I did it."

Sniffling, you wipe your face with your sleeve before shifting forward in the saddle, giving Cinnamon's mane a pat. You promise to find her a whole damn bushel of apples when you get back.

Judging by the sky, you should still have enough time to make it back by dark. You give the map a lookover before contracting your legs, giving the horse's belly, picking up the pace. The edge of the valley is within your sights.

You feel the bullet before you hear it.

White hot pain lashes into your arm, followed by the echo of gunfire. A single shot.

The force rips you out of the saddle, and you tumble towards the grass below. You hit the ground like a sack of bricks, the impact rattling your bones. You gasp, trying to gulp down the air that's been punched out of your lungs.

Cinnamon rears back, startled, letting out a high-pitched whinny. You can't calm her. You can't even open your eyes. Blindly, you reach for your pulsing wound, warm wetness soaking your fingers. Rocking onto your side, you clutch onto your bleeding arm, curling into yourself like a beetle.

"The fuck did you shoot her for?"

"She was gettin' away!"

Two voices. Deep. Male. Closer now. Your instincts flare but you can't move.

"S'alright. Looks like you mighta just grazed her arm."

"Get her bag."

You yelp as your bow, rifle, and backpack are pried from your shoulders, a fresh wave of pain rolling down your spine.

"Turn her over."

A hand roughly forces you onto your back. You still can't bring yourself to open your eyes, dazed by fear and pain. You manage to force them into slits, and you're able to make out two large shadows looming above you. One is crouched over your bag, inspecting the contents. The other looms over you, hands planted on his knees.

A low whistle.

"Been a while since we had one this pretty."

You're doused with ice cold panic. The men are arguing which of them spotted you first. Which one gets to have you first.

Their intentions are clear. They are not here to help you. They are going to hurt you.

These are no more men than the Infected that attacked you.

Your eyes snap open like a gunshot. In one breath, you shift your hips and dig out the pistol from your waistband. You release the hammer with the flick of your thumb. You take aim.

Then you fire.

They don't expect it.

The bullet rips through the man's neck with a wet tear, followed by the fast flow of blood. Jugular burst, red fountains from his neck, splashing onto the grass below. He falls to his knees, wide-eyed, like his brain's still catching up with what had happened. He tries to speak, but the noise is a wet gurgle. Then he's on his back, twitching in the grass.

"You goddamn bitch!"

Before you can fire another shot, the other man winds his foot back and kicks your wrist, sending a shock of pain down your arm. You cry out, the gun knocked from your hand, landing somewhere in the grass.

He pounces on top of you, blocking your view of the sky. Through the blood and adrenaline, your vision seems blurred, and you can't make out his features. Dirty skin. Clumpy hair. Gray teeth. A pale scar.

He tries to pin you, but you begin thrashing wildly. Reaching forward, you claw at his face, nails dragging harshly against his skin. He reels back, stunned, before winding his arm back and punching you across the face. Hard.

Something cracks. Your head whips to the side, thrown violently by the impact. You sputter, vision flickering, spots of white bursting behind your closed lids.

It snaps back into focus when you feel his knees digging into one of your arms, pinning you down. The pain squeezes your eyeballs and lungs but you continue to fight; bucking and flailing, teeth bared as you kick at the grass beneath you - anything to get him off. None of it works.

Shit, shit, shit. While you might've recently gained some muscle, you're still not nearly strong enough to heave this bear of a man off of you.

Then his pelvis presses into yours and you feel your breath cease, heart beating like a jackrabbit in your chest. Breath, warm and disgusting, fans your ear.

"Was gonna make it nice for you," He hisses lowly, fingers curling into your hair as he gives you a sharp yank. Then he draws his face closer to yours. "Now I'm gonna split you in two."

You can't move. You can't breathe.

Your back presses into the ground, trying to sink, but there's nowhere to go.

His fingers trail downward, and when he begins tugging at the waistband of your trousers, something takes hold of you.

Something that's not you. An animalistic force.

Something that you have to become, because there's no way you'll let him have you.

Ignoring the strain on your scalp, you lunge forward and sink your teeth into his face.

He screams and you bite down harder. Hot blood spurts between your teeth and you try not to gag. He rears back, and then with a sickening tear, you rip out a chunk of his cheek. He topples backward, eyes wide with shock, clutching his bloodied face while you spit out the chunk of flesh, blood dribbling down your chin like saliva.

You know you have to move quickly. Gun. Where's your fucking gun? Your hands frantically comb the grass for your pistol, breath quickening as you can hear the man moving towards you again, raging like an angry bull.

Your pinky connects with metal, and you nearly hurl. Hand curling around the firearm, you whirl around and pull the trigger in rapid succession - once, twice, three times. All three shots connect to his chest, his body jolting like a dummy. He collapses onto the ground, air wheezing out of his lungs.

Then deafening silence.

Wide-eyed with the gun still raised, your gaze bounces between the two bodies, chest rising and falling as you try to steady your breath. Waiting, waiting for either of them to rise again.

They don't.

Your gaze sweeps the horizon, looking for more threats.

There are none.

You swim back to your body.

You lower the gun. Your hands are shaking. Acid is hot in your belly.

They're dead. They're dead they're dead they're dead but why can you still feel greasy fingers grazing your hip bone? Tugging at your waistband? You frantically run your hands down the length of your pants, like you can bat the feeling away. There's copper under your tongue. The disgusting taste of human flesh. It all lingers.

Bowing over, you bury your fingernails in the dirt, trying to anchor yourself.

But the weight of everything - it crashes down on you at once.

You vomit.

Tears prick your eyes as you retch whatever is inside you, which is not much. Mostly watery bile, razoring up your esophagus. It splashes on your pants.

You heave and heave until there's nothing yet. Until you are nothing. You collapse onto the ground, folding into yourself.

Then you cry.

Joel glances out the window for what feels like the seventh time that minute. Outside, he sees nothing. Just the tangle of trees and the emptied garage.

Evening crawls into night and you still haven't returned. Something happened. Damn woman either got lost or... Or you aren't coming back at all. Fled or dead, he isn't sure which one makes his stomach clench uncomfortably. 

He should've gone himself.

As the hours passed, Joel could feel his desperation climbing. His little girl, normally so bright-eyed and full of life - now so sickly and dull. Face too pale. Breathing too shallow.

Her cough had worsened. Tears spilled as she buried her mouth in the inner-crook of her elbow, trying to suppress it. He could only watch in horror when she pulled away, revealing a splotch of blood where her mouth had been. He tried to feed her some Advil, but they seemed useless against the fever that ran white hot in her veins.

How did this happen? Where did this illness come from?

At one point, Joel deducted that it might've been an act of God. To punish him. All that blood he spilt. The lives he'd taken. Those he betrayed. It was not without consequence.

He got an answer eventually, when a cloud of flies had drawn him to the chicken coop. Their feathered bodies lay crumpled inside, absent of any spilled blood. He knew a fox or coyote hadn't done this. Birds carried diseases before the Outbreak. Something had passed among them, burning them up from the inside out. Passed onto his daughter.

When Sarah manages to settle into a shallow rest, Joel tugs on a pair of gloves and slips a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. He carefully transfers the birds out of the coop and burns them in the fire pit. The flames char their bodies and he tries not to think about the afternoon he and Sarah spent coming up with names for each of them. He tries.

Now, he sits at the kitchen table, feeling useless as hell. He reheated some of that godawful tea even though Sarah can't keep anything down. He pours himself a cup. It tastes like shit. He dumps it down the sink.

He waits. Waits for the creak of the front door. Waits for you.

He won't admit it out loud, but the cabin feels a bit empty. He's gotten used to your presence - quiet, never imposing, like you are always hyper aware of the space you take up. But not delicate. Not harsh, either. Sharp eyes. A sharp tongue. Pisses him off sometimes, but it also rouses him in a way he refuses to name.

He's never met anyone like you. Not in a long, long time.

The folks in the QZ were ground down and burdened. They'd given up. Others had let themselves be transformed by grief and loss, hardening into something cold and detached. He didn't blame them - not one bit. He'd done the same. Anything less wouldn't last long in the city.

Still, the cruelty went beyond what Joel could handle. He'd witnessed the bodies of old folks folded in the streets, beaten to death for their ration cards, the street gutters running red with their blood. He'd witnessed people step over their bodies, like they were just road kill clogging up the streets. Not calling for help. Not even bothering to check for a pulse. Maybe they just knew better than to cling to hope.

It wasn't a future he could stomach for Sarah. They had to leave. Even if that meant bloodying his hands, one last time.

What he'd done was unforgivable.

Joel buried those ghosts. He had to, paving way for something bright and hopeful. Life at the cabin was a new beginning for him and his daughter.

And then you showed up.

You'd slotted into their lifestyle easier than he'd ever care to admit. You're resourceful. Pull your own weight and then some. Accommodating his daughter's teenagerisms and cheeky sense of humor, giving her a camaraderie Joel couldn't provide himself, no matter how hard he tried.

You bore scars. But you still smiled. Damaged, but still emotionally warm.

How is that possible?

Maybe that's why he'd been resistant to letting you stay - folks like you haven't existed in Joel's universe. Not for a long time.

He never wanted you here. Part of him still doesn't, maybe.

But... He's warming up to it. He glances at the kitchen chair beside him, always pulled out at midnight, reserved for his demons. The nights you choose to occupy it instead... Well, he can't really describe how it makes him feel. Relief, maybe.

His ears prick up. Something rustles outside.

Instinctually, he goes for his gun, but he catches the familiar gait of four hooves trotting through the underbrush.

He shoots up from his chair and hurries out the front door.

Joel doesn't say a goddamn thing when he sees you.

He greets you at the porch - he must've heard Cinnamon clomping through the brush. He stands rigid, the warm light of a lantern illuminating his stoic features. You can feel him taking in your appearance. The sticky, dried blood. The hair pulled haphazardly out of your braid. The strip of fabric knotted around your bicep.

A thousand questions swimming in his gaze.

Thankfully, he doesn't voice any of them.

Wordlessly, he moves to the bottom porch step. Shrugging the backpack from your shoulders, you close the distance between you two, offering him the bag.

Your voice trembles.

"Is she okay?"

His fingers curl around the strap. He sets the lantern down and unzips your backpack, inspecting the pill bottles and medical supplies within. His breath stutters in his nose. There's a flicker in his face when he looks at you again. A crack in that gruff armor. Something assured.

"She will be now."

The relief is violent enough to bring you to your knees. You made it back in time.

You say nothing and send him a wobbly nod. Joel disappears inside and you watch him go, staring at the screen door until the criss-cross pattern is branded behind your eyelids. You feel a bit disconnected, gripped by the trauma of the past few hours. You don't feel like you. You feel filthy. Itchy.

Eventually, you carry yourself inside. The bathroom's empty so you slip inside, closing the door behind you. The mirror shows you an angry bruise below your right eye. Your jawline and mouth are stained red, muddied by dried tear marks that trailed down your cheeks. Hallow. Haunted.

Frantically, you scoop water out of the sink basin and splash it onto your face, furiously scrubbing away the blood. You wash until your skin feels raw, wishing you could do the same to your memories.

For some reason, your heart rate begins to spike violently in your chest. Battling for your breath, you grip the sink's edge, watching swirls of pink disappear down the drain. You need to calm down.

"That ain't your blood."

Your heart jerks in your chest. You didn't even hear Joel come in.

"It isn't."

He shifts under the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

"How many were there?"

Your grip on the sink tightens.

"Two."

His voice lowers.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," You answer automatically, but you realize how stupid that sounds because it's very fucking obvious that something happened. You exhale through your nose and try again. "It's fine. They attacked me but I handled it."

Handled it. Right. You tore out a man's cheek, you fucking psychopath. You shot a man in the neck. You can still hear the tear of flesh and taste red hot blood under your tongue and the tug on your waistband and fuck- it's too much. You need to get out of these clothes. Out of this skin. Shed it like a snake and expose that soft, pink vulnerability that still lives inside you.

Joel says your name but you ignore him. Tearing yourself away from the sink, you try moving around him, but he blocks your exit. His hand comes down your shoulder.

"Don't fucking touch me!" You hiss sharply, recoiling from him. He quickly draws back his hand, giving you space. Shit, you didn't mean to react like that. It's just too much. 

You duck your head so he doesn't see the tears crowding your eyes. Then, in a much softer tone: "Don't. Please."

"Okay," He says, voice careful and low, like he's calming a feral animal. "We should stitch up that arm, though."

You follow his gaze, where it's fixed on the semi-open wound, partially covered by the knot of fabric you'd used to slow the bleeding. It looks red and swollen and angry. Inviting infection.

You exhale a shaky breath.

"Fine."

You let Joel stitch your wound at the kitchen table, grimacing at the sharp tug and pull of your flesh. He's mercifully quick, even though you can feel his gaze occasionally wandering upward, trying to catch your eyes. Prodding you like a hot fire poker. You grit your teeth, avoiding his gaze.

When he's finished, neither of you says a word. You don't even thank him. You shoot up from the table and hurry out of the kitchen.

You shed your clothes, leaving a bloodied and soiled trail to the couch because you can't bring yourself to care about folding them or placing them in the laundry bin. Left in just your undergarments, you sink into the couch and pull the blanket over yourself, like you can hide from the past 24 hours.

You hate that Joel was right.

You've killed. You'll kill again.

Chapter Text

For a couple days, you don't move from the couch.

Hunger pulls you to the dinner table, and you have to occasionally get up to relieve yourself, but the rest of your days are spent curled up on the couch, sleeping or absently staring at the upholstery fibers in the cushions. You feel cold. Cold and gross and empty. Disconnected from the world around you. A useless lump of flesh and bones.

At least Sarah's getting better.

You heard her light steps emerge from her bedroom. Moving around the cabin. Loose chatter with her father in the kitchen.

At some point, she plopped onto the couch beside you, trying to talk to you. You don't really remember what she said - she might've asked you to play a board game with her. For some reason, you can't bring yourself to respond, and you hated yourself for it. Another set of footsteps entered the room, followed by a low voice telling Sarah: "just leave her be right now." Then she'd go, and you'd curl into yourself like a pill bug, throat thick with guilt, lips buried into the cushions so you wouldn't scream.

She doesn't try again. Nobody asks you to do anything. They grant you the mercy of pretending you don't exist.

You spend a lot of time in your head, trapped between ghosts and memories. You're not supposed to linger in the before, but you do anyway. You think of your mother. Soft and nurturing, wearing the paper crown you'd stapled together with old construction paper. Your head rests on her lap. Flour-dusted fingers comb through your hair. She smells of artificial jasmine.

Would she recognize you? That little girl she picked up off the sidewalk, swatting loose pebbles from her scraped knees, pulling that purple bike upright. Gentle songs of encouragement. "Go on, sweetie - you can do it," because she knew that little girl could. What she was capable of.

Now you know what you're capable of.

Wide eyes. Tear-stained cheeks. A blood-soaked maw.

Are you proud of me, mom?

"Finally," The voice belongs to your brother. His ghost chases off your mother as he joins you on the couch, arm slung over the back. A cloying smirk you refuse to face. "Finally, you understand. You see the way the world is now."

You don't want to think about him anymore. He's pissing you off, even in the warped alcoves of your brain. So you flip him off and watch him go, packing his memory in a box and stowing it in the back corner of your mind.

You sleep.

You just need a few more days. Then you'll pick yourself back up again.

There are slants of peace in the raw aftermath, where you hang between sleep and consciousness, your brain mercifully blank. In those moments, you swear you hear the faint pluck of guitar strings, sweet and mellow.

Laughter.

Children's laughter. It carries through the community like ringing bells, the sound soft and pure and sweet. Kneeled over in your garden, you swipe away the sweat that's built on your dirt-stained forehead. The children rush past your small cottage in a flurry of giggles, and you pause to watch them, your lips fixed into a faint smile.

The witching hour, your sister-in-law calls it. When the children in the community seem to be struck with bursts of energy, always just after suppertime. The parents had given up on quiet activities, like puzzles or story-time. Now they just let them run wild in the sun-streaked roads.

A familiar head of hair blurs by your peripheral. Raising your hand, you call out your nephew's name, offering him a wave when he turns to look at you. What you don't expect is for him to rush in your direction and tackle you into a hug. Grinning, you squeeze his tiny body to yours, hair tickling your nose before releasing him, watching as he darts off to catch up with the herd. Your gaze hangs in the air long after they've run off, staring at nothing.

"Hey sunshine." Mark seems to materialize out of nowhere, his shins blocking your view of the street. He catches your faraway stare, waving a hand in your face. "You good?"

"Yeah." You sigh, head tilting up to meet his gaze. "Just wishing I had an iota of their energy."

"Yeah? Well, look what I scored today."

He pulls something from behind his back. A small, beige, burlap sack, fastened shut with a roll of twine. The faded image of a brown bean printed onto the fabric.

"Coffee?" You perk up, rising to your feet, swatting loose dirt from your jeans. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"Ms. Bradbury found a bag in her back cupboard." He explains, tossing the bag up and down. The coffee beans crackle in the bag like marbles. "I may or may not have promised to help trim her hedges in exchange, though."

You quirk an eyebrow.

"That a euphemism? Let me guess, she asked you to do it shirtless, too."

He shoots you a sly look.

"Oh? You jealous?"

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile.

"Of course not."

"Don't worry, jealousy's cute on you."

Your cheeks blaze red. Before you can defend your honor, strong arms scoop under your thighs and hoist you high. You yelp, wrapping your arms around Mark's neck to stabilize yourself. He spins you in his arms, coffee abandoned somewhere in the dirt. You giggle uncontrollably, muffling the noise in the crook of his neck. Laughter rumbles in his chest as he kicks open the door to your house, holding you to his chest like a newlywed bride.

You prepare for the firm press of his lips but you're met with a cold rush of air.

His hold abruptly releases you. You open your eyes.

"Mark?"

He's gone. The warm walls of your cottage are gone - replaced by endless stretches of shadows. The dark tendrils seem to vine towards you, crawling, scraping the floor like misshapen fingers. You stumble backwards, heart wedged firmly in your throat. You can't scream. Your back makes contact with the wall. You feel paralyzed.

A hand shoots out from the shadows, wrapping around your throat. A weight presses you against the wall, trapping you there.

Something steps out of the dark.

The man you shot. His body's riddled with coryceps. Part of his cheek is torn out, the exposed muscle gleaming. Lips turned into a bloody smile.

"Gonna split you in two."

Your breath catches in a stuttered gasp. You scream, but there's no sound. Air won't come.

More hands grasp at your flesh, trying to rip it from bone. You're torn apart. You're put back together just to be ripped apart again.

Your eyes snap open.

Your hands shoot forward, looking to grip onto something - anything. Your fingers curl around warm fabric. You bunch it in your fists, smelling pine and aftershave. It's familiar. It's safe. You pull yourself closer to it like it's your lifeline, burrowing into it, trying to escape the nightmare still curled around your heart.

Something foul presses into the back of your throat. An acidic storm in your belly. You know what's coming next.

Unlatching your fingers, you careen yourself backwards, tumbling until you're sprawled on the hardwood floor. You lurch once before vomit flies from your lips, spilling onto the ground.

You retch again and again, tears coursing down your face as you do. The motions exert you. Sweat puddles at the base of your spine. Stray pieces of hair cling to your forehead. Curled up on the floor, the smell of bile reaches your nostrils, but you don't have the strength to recoil away. You're completely empty.

"Daddy?"

Reality returns to you in fragments. The cabin walls. The low flicker of flames in the hearth. Sarah standing beneath the doorway, the hem of her shirt clutched tightly in her fist.

And Joel.

He's crouched on the floor beside you, the fabric of his t-shirt crumpled from your fists. You can't make out the expression he wears - a deep line creasing his forehead. Lips pressed into a thin line. He's probably pissed that you threw up on his floor.

"I'm- I'm sorry." The words feel garbled in your mouth. "I didn't mean..."

Something doesn't feel right. You're sluggish, fighting through an unseen current. The blood in your veins runs red hot; a boiling river. Your skin is on fire. A headache blinds you. Your arm throbs. Scrunching your nose into a wince, you stifle a pained groan that wants to slip through your lips.

"Dad? What's wrong with her?"

He ignores her question. You wish he'd answer. You'd like to know what's wrong with you, too.

A palm, cool and dry, rests on your forehead.

"Can you get her some water, sweetie?"

"Is - is she dying?" Her wobbly voice asks.

"Sarah. Water, please."

You try speaking again, breathless.

"I... I'll clean that. I'm sorry, I just-"

"Stop talkin'."

"I just... Need to lay back down for a second."

Joel says something else but you ignore him. Your arms shift beneath you, fingernails scraping the floor for purchase. It feels like your strength has been zapped out of you, limbs heavy and lethargic.

The man exhales a curse as he watches you struggle to pull yourself upright. Then two syllables, muttered under his breath.

"Stubborn."

An unexpected but gentle touch roves behind your shoulders, pulling you away from the couch. Another hand slides behind the back of your knees. You're lifted upward, floating, wrapped in wool and iron. Held tight. Your head lolls forward, cradled against something broad. You curl into it.

Joel's carrying you.

Beneath the fog of pain, you might feel mortified. You might squirm, insist you can carry yourself. 

But it feels safe, like a harbor on treacherous shores. So you don't fight it.

The next time you're fully awake, you find yourself in an unfamiliar room.

You're not sure how much time passed. You spent hours bathed in sweat and misery, battling for consciousness, the world coming to you in faint flickers. You feel weak; exhausted from fighting the red hot fever that blisters through your body. A burning headache. Razors in your throat.

Fuck, you feel miserable. You can only imagine how you look.

You'd caught Sarah's illness, no doubt about that.

Eyelids peaking open, you try to make out the blurred shadows and shapes that seem to meld together in the dimmed lighting. You can make out a slit of daylight between the closed curtains.

"Where-?" The question dies out, your voice crackly and hoarse. You don't try again.

Someone answers you anyway.

"My room."

My room? Meaning Joel's room? The realization cuts through the fevered haze. You are in forbidden territory. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy but you force them all the way open, wanting to take in your surroundings.

The room is smaller than Sarah's but the bed is larger, the frame nearly occupying the length of the back wall. You can make out the outline of a darkwood dresser. Wool and flannel hanging in the small closet. Amber oak walls. Everything feels softened by the faint glow of a lantern.

A heavy blanket presses you into the mattress. Joel's scent wraps around you like a second blanket. You instinctively curl into it, closing your eyes as you burrow yourself deeper in the soft sheets.

Joel's voice rumbles again from somewhere within the room.

"Don't get comfortable."

The sheets rustle with your movements.

"Hm?"

"My room ain't a Holiday Inn."

He always has to spoil the fun, doesn't he?

"Sure isn't. The hospitality here sucks."

He scoffs. The noise has your cracked lips twisting into a smile.

Your eyes slant open again. Joel's shadow looms over the bed. He's fussing with something bedside. You trail the wind of the tubing, realizing the end is slotted into your knuckle. Pumping liquid into your veins. An IV.

"Been a while since you had another woman in your bed, Joel?" Two days ago, that might've been an insane thing to say. But your guard is down right now. It's a bit freeing, actually. "Sorry it had to be me."

"Don't worry. I plan on burnin' the sheets."

You blow air out your lips, fighting a smile. Joel's playing along. You feel like you've lost your damn mind.

"Asshole. You'd be lucky to shag someone like me."

"You want me to fetch you a mirror?"

"Fuck off. God," You chuckle loosely. "How long have I been out?"

"Just the night," He nods to the IV. "You weren't keepin' anythin' down, so I got some fluids runnin' through 'ya."

"Wow, Joel. And I thought you said you wouldn't shag me."

Yeah, you've lost your mind.

The comment catches him off guard, evident by the small noise he makes in the back of his throat.

"Jesus Christ. You proud of yourself?"

Your chapped lips stretch into a grin.

"Yes I am."

He rolls his eyes and you expect him to head for the door. But he lingers by the nightstand, eyes fixed on the bottles of medication on the table. Maybe he's calculating how many pills he'd need to crush up in your food to kill you.

Pushing the snarl of hair out of your eyes, you try to sit up straighter.

"How's Sarah?"

"She's good." He answers. "Seems to have her strength back."

Your shoulders sag with relief, but then guilt burrows in your gut. You'd been ignoring her.

"I'm sorry I've been..." You trail off, not really sure what to apologize for first. 'Sorry for almost vomiting on you?' 'Sorry I made you carry me to your bed like some floozy damsel?' 'Sorry for being a useless, pathetic piece of shit these past few days?' "Yeah."

"Don't want your apology."

You're not really sure what that means.

Before you can ask, a flash of pain ripples up your abdomen, sinking between your eyes. You let you a low groan.

The fever seems to come in waves, and you can feel a hot flush crawling up your neck. A pounding headache emerges, blurring the edges of your vision. You close your eyes, hoping to relieve the pressure building beneath your skull.

Your throat is on fire but you speak anyway.

"How'd you avoid getting sick?"

Joel doesn't answer. Maybe he shrugs his shoulders.

"You're superhuman, you know that? It's like you're invincible. It's not really fair."

"Dunno know 'bout that." He replies. "You've made it this far, too."

You blow air out between your lips.

"Yeah. By sheer, dumb luck. Watch - it'll be this stupid fever that finally does me in. Made it all this way just to die of a cold."

The mattress creaks. A new weight settles on the edge of the bed.

"You ain't dyin'."

Something cool is laid on your burning skin. A damp cloth, soaked and ringed, placed on your forehead. The effect is instantaneous, bringing you cool relief. You shiver, sinking into the mattress. When the cloth runs warm again, Joel swaps it with his hand, checking your temperature.

Closing your eyes, you imagine for a moment that the hands that care for you are those of a beloved; tender and affectionate. You build up the fantasy in your mind; where life is slow and steady and doesn't demand blood. It's not a normal thought - to think of Joel in this way. But you're feeling sick. Vulnerable. Stripped raw.

There's a pinch behind your eye sockets.

"I bit his face."

Joel stills. He's listening.

"The man who attacked me. He had me pinned down. I couldn't move. He was gonna- he tried to..." Your throat seems to close. You can't finish the sentence. "So I did the only thing I could think of. I bit his face. Like a fucking animal." An unexpected giggle, bitter and hollow, bubbles from your lips. "Maybe I've learned a thing or two from those Infected fuckers."

He's quiet with the information at first. He leans away from you, retracting the hand that rested on your forehead. You wonder if he's looking down at you any differently. Silently horrified. Wondering how the hell he let someone like you live under the same roof as his daughter. You can't bring yourself to open your eyes and look at him, afraid of what you might see.

When he finally speaks, his voice is a dark rumble.

"Those men were the animals. They got what they deserved."

You open your eyes. His face is shadowed. His fist is clenched tightly, that gentle touch gone.

Did those men deserve it? Yes, they did. One of them shot you. Tried to rob you. The other wanted to rip into you like you were something owed to him. Like you were less than meat.

Now, there's more blood on your hands. Four lives. Extinguished by you.

So, is this who you are? Or worse, is this who you've always been? The desire to survive - to kill to survive - so violently engrained within you? Always there, idle under your skin? Eager to be stirred awake? Roused by flesh blood? It's frightening.

The bruises will fade but the reality will stay with you like a brand, carved under your skin.

You're a fucking killer.

The truth of it stings. But the worst part? You realize that you don't regret it. Not one bit. Finding those meds - that brief glitter of hope - had been enough for you to fight your way back. To tear through flesh and blood. To drag yourself back by your teeth, one aching inch at a time.

You savor the clarity.

"How many lives have you taken, Joel?"

A lot.

He doesn't say it, but you can feel it hang in the air between you.

Your next question is asked barely above a whisper.

"Did they all deserve it?"

His answer comes swift. Easy as a breath.

"Them or us."

He soaks and rings the cloth, laying it on your forehead again. Your eyes drift shut, heavy.

Them or us.

The mattress shifts. Another weight occupies the empty space beside you. You know it's Sarah before you open your eyes. She's laying beside you, hands tucked into her chest, head cradled by one of the spare pillows. Color has returned to her cheeks. Her eyes hold that familiar, playful spark. You close your eyes again.

"Hey, you." You croak, voice cracking from underuse.

"You've been sleeping for, like, two days."

"That's it?" You sigh ruefully. "I could probably go for two more."

And that was the truth. These two days had been the best sleep you've gotten in months. Everything, even your mercifully empty dreams, feels intoxicatingly warm. You don't ever want to leave this room. Joel's room. The thought makes you blush.

"I don't think my dad's back can take another two days on the couch."

So that's where he's been sleeping. The thought of his enormous body scrunched up on that couch slightly amuses you, but it also has you feeling a bit guilty for kicking him out of his bed. Bah, you hate this. Life was easier when you could laugh at his misery.

"Could you hand me that water, please?"

Sarah pushes herself upright and reaches for the glass left on the nightstand. The water satiates your parched throat, and you finish it all in three swallows. You flop back against the pillow with a quiet groan.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better," You say. "Just exhausted."

"That's good. That means your body's fighting to heal itself." She pauses. "Or at least, that's what my dad says. He thinks you've probably gotten through the worst of it."

Well, that's a relief. You can't imagine how it'd get worse.

"You scared me." She adds.

"Yeah, well, you scared me first." You tease, but your smile drops when you notice her serious expression. You reach for her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. "I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I promise I'm feeling much better."

She says nothing. She remains upright, sitting criss-cross, staring at your face. She's cataloging your injuries, eyes lingering on the dark bruising below your eye. Her gaze quickly lowers, like she'd been ashamed to be caught, and begins absently picking at a loose thread on the quilt. She retracts her hand from yours.

Something's weighing on her mind.

You drag yourself into a seated position, using a pillow to prop yourself up against the headboard.

"What's going on?" You ask her gently. "Talk to me."

"He told me what you did. How you went out and got those meds." Her voice falters slightly. She swallows, finding her strength. "How you risked your life. For me. Why? Why would you do that?"

There was no world where you would've not done that. Not anymore.

You're not sure how to explain to her that seeing her so sickly and frail, how watching Joel hold her to his chest - fighting wracking sobs because he's her father and he has to be strong - was likely the closest thing to heartbreak you'll ever experience again.

Losing Sarah, your only friend, would've undone you.

You can't imagine what it would've done to Joel.

"That was stupid," She continues, almost like she's uttering the words to herself. "You could've gotten yourself killed."

"But I didn't."

"But you could've-"

"Hey," You gently cut her off. "You would've done the same for me, right?"

The question is accompanied by a small grin as you hold up your arm, flashing her the bracelet on your wrist. Her eyes catch the beads, seeming to twinkle. Slowly, her lips spread into a shy smile and she returns the gesture, indulging in the private handshake you two share.

Then she ducks down to hug you.

You pull her in close, ignoring the dull throb in your arm. Yes, you'd certainly take a thousand bullets for this girl.

"He told me it was the chickens that got us sick." She straightens, her attention returning to the frayed piece of yarn in front of her. "He got rid of them."

"I'm sorry, Sarah."

She shrugs.

"It's okay. They were just chickens."

"I know, but..." You're not really sure how to console her. She's trying to mirror her father's nonchalance; brushing it off like it's nothing, but she spent every morning in that coop. Talking to them. Caring for them. "It's still okay to be sad about it."

"Maybe we'll find some more." She suggests half-heartedly.

"Sure," You nod. "Plenty of farms around the area."

Your response seems to encourage her.

"I've always wanted goats."

"I can deal with goats."

"Maybe some pigs? Sheep, too? A cow?"

"Geez, you plan on building us an arc, too?"

She tilts her head.

"A what?"

"Nevermind."

"My dad and I are gonna head out later this afternoon, check on the snares." Sarah says, mood seemingly lifted. "You gonna be okay by yourself?"

"I'll be just fine." You wave her off, sinking back into the mattress. "In fact, don't tell him I'm feeling better. I'd like to spend one more night away from the couch."

Sarah giggles, eyes glimmering with amusement.

"Alright, deal."

She leaps off the bed, bounding towards the door. She pauses under the frame, head tilted back to look at you.

"I'm glad you didn't die."

You return her smile.

"That makes two of us."

Chapter Text

"Chest up. Your back should be strong."

Sarah's spine straightens at your instruction, the motion leveling the bow. Her arm twitches as she struggles to keep the bowstring taut. Standing behind her, you observe her posture and hum your approval. She takes aim, the arrow pointing at a makeshift dummy, and lets it fly. It whizzes past the dummy, disappearing somewhere in the tree thicket.

She blows a defeated breath out her lips, looking like she's one-more-missed-arrow-away from rushing the dummy and strangling it with her bare hands. You bite back your amusement.

"Took me a while to get the hang of it, too."

"Shooting the rifle was easier than this." She whines.

You chuckle before swiping at your forehead, your hand pulling away wet.

The sun tastes of summer today, and it's hotter than hell. The air is thick, warm, and unmoving. Not even the mercy of a breeze moves through the trees today. You rolled up the legs of your pants but they still cling uncomfortably to your skin, speckled with sweat.

The three of you wandered out of the property, settling for target practice in one of the forest's clearings. Sarah wanted to learn how to use your bow and Joel eventually consented, after giving one of his infamous "it's not a toy" and "you gotta respect it" lectures. You teach her about the mechanics of the bow, trying to recall lessons from when you first picked up the weapon; pointing out the grip, arrow rest, bow sight. The importance of muscle and breath control.

It took a while to recover from the virus. Your fever ebbed, but it seemed to linger in your bones. Your energy was low. You got tired easily. There were days where you felt out of place in your own body, brain disconnected, your arrows shot way off their mark.

But as each day passed, you felt more like yourself again.

The vicious bruises faded away. The wound on your arm is mostly healed, though the skin slightly puckers from Joel's stitches.

You feel better. A bit raw. But strong. Stronger.

Still, at the end of the day, the sight of the couch fills you with a bit of dread. You know nightmares wait for you. Sometimes you'll wake up and dash for the bathroom to vomit. Other times you'll just lay there and endure it, wide-eyed and breathless, staring up at the ceiling, fists clenched so tightly your muscles cramp. Paralyzed. Cradled by sweat and terror.

You've acknowledged that you'll spend the rest of your life chasing sleep. Chasing a dreamless night. Doesn't make it any easier. So you try to busy yourself with your typical cabin duties, though you spend more time with the physical ones, like chopping wood or hauling water from nearby quarries, hoping pure exhaustion knocks you out at the end of the day.

"Bows require a bit of patience," You tell Sarah, echoing the words of your old teacher. "Discipline."

She rolls her eyes.

"Okay, now you sound like my dad."

Your eyes wander over to Joel. He's parked himself on a treestump, trying not to listen to your conversation while he sharpens the blade of one of his knives.

Your mouth quirks.

"Don't insult me. If I wanted to sound like him..." You lower your voice, pronouncing each word with an over-the-top, Southern twang. "I'd reckon I'd talk like this."

Sarah giggles at your ridiculous impression.

Joel pauses his sharpening, frowning.

"That sounds nothin' like me."

"He's right." Sarah shoves her thumbs through her beltloops, imitating some kind of old Western shoot-out stance. She exaggerates her accent, voice dropping several octaves. "He sounds more like this."

That earns her a faint smile. He can't even pretend to be irritated with her. There's adoration in his eyes. A lightness only she can draw out.

"You two havin' fun?"

Sarah giggles, flexing the unloaded bowstring with her hand.

"Come on, cowboy. Why don't you come show us how it's done?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm just fine over here."

"You chicken?"

Joel's eyes flicker over to you, drawn in by your taunt. You meet his gaze with a small smirk, brows raised expectedly.

You're not really sure when you became comfortable enough to speak to him like this. It happened sometime after you had fallen ill. When he took care of you. Treated you like your life actually mattered. He could've just let you rot on the couch, let your fever burn you from the inside out. He could've, but if there's anything you know about Joel, is that even if he's an asshole, he's not a cruel asshole. He wouldn't do that to you. Not after you risked yours for those meds. Not after all you've been through.

No. Now, he speaks to you like you're a human. He's become your midnight companion, not with words, but with tangible presence and acknowledged silence. He trusts you.

You live in a kind of peace that feels permanent. Normal.

You don't necessarily have to walk on egg shells around him, but it still feels like a balancing act. Every now and then, when you push his buttons a little too hard, he'll shoot you a wilting expression, one that screams "watch it," and you have to bite down whatever sassy or needless remark you had notched and ready to fire.

It's a reminder, maybe. One that lets you know that despite everything, you and Joel are not friends. You're... Roommates? Business associates? Who the hell knows.

And now he's staring at you, eyes like needles on your skin. Subconsciously, you reach up, looking to fiddle with the end of your braid. Your hand meets air. You're still getting used to it; the ends swishing just above your shoulders.

"Sarah, you mind giving me a hand in the bathroom?"

You had emerged into the kitchen one morning, drawing the attention of both Millers. Sarah's eyes seem to widen, curious but excited about this mysterious task you were bestowing upon her. Joel's eyes did the opposite, narrowing with suspicion.

Alone in the bathroom, you faced Sarah, nodding to the scissors set on the vanity.

"I want to cut my hair. Have you ever done that before?"

She shook her head.

"No."

Great.

"Who usually cuts your hair?"

"My dad."

Out of the question. You'd rather jump into the nearest marsh than ask Joel for a trim.

"Well, it can't be that hard, right?"

Okay, it was pretty fucking hard, actually. You fastened it into a single braid and instructed Sarah to try and cut into it horizontally. She fumbled with the scissors as she cut, struggling to slice through your thick hair, and before you even looked in the mirror, you knew it was crooked.

The next hour was spent evening the ends, and before you knew it, your hair was just barely touching your shoulders. Standing in front of the vanity, you observed your new cut in the mirror, running your fingers through the short strands. Behind you, Sarah's face seemed to glow red, embarrassment lighting up her features.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to cut it so short."

"It's fine," You assured her. "I actually like it. Feels so much lighter."

"But now you can't braid it."

You shrugged.

"It's just hair. It'll grow back."

She looked unconvinced. She craned her neck towards the doorway.

"Dad! Will you come in here-?"

Oh, God. Why was she calling Joel here? You opened your mouth to object.

"Oh, no that's okay-"

He appeared under the doorway in an instant, eyes frantic as he surveyed the state of the bathroom. Clumps of your hair piled in the bathtub. You standing in front of the mirror. Sarah behind you, the scissors held loosely in her hand, face twisted in contemplation.

"Will you come look at her hair? Does it look even to you?"

He relaxed a bit when he realized it was not an emergency, but you could see the discomfort lingering in his taut shoulders.

"Kiddo, I don't-"

"Come on, just look." She insisted. "Do you think it looks good?"

He released a sigh, his eyes slowly shifting to you. Biting your lip, you tried not to squirm, forcing yourself to look everywhere but him. You felt his gaze rake over you, drifting from the blunt ends of your new cut, and down the curve of your neck. A ruddy flush heated up your face.

Did he think it looked good?

His eyes flickered to yours in the mirror. For one, pain-staking moment, your gaze locked with his. You're used to Joel sucking the air out of the room, but this felt... Different. Like he was stripping you bare, holding you in place. Your heart raced. Your blood burned. Something coiled low in your belly. Something you weren't comfortable with naming. You looked away first.

"Looks fine." He grumbled before abruptly turning, adding a curt "clean this up" as he stepped out of the bathroom. Seconds later, you heard the screen door open and slam shut.

"What's he so grumpy about?" Sarah murmured, returning her attention to your hair. She fluffed the ends while you continued to stare down at your hands, fingers tightly gripping onto the sink. You relaxed them, exhaling a steady breath.

"Gimli," You reminded her, and she let out a snort. Then she reached for the scissors again, wondering out loud if the left side could lose another quarter inch, the interaction with Joel completely forgotten.

But the way he looked at you - that lived under your skin for a couple days.

You have no idea what it meant. You didn't dare explore it further.

Now Joel lets out a tired sigh, pulling you out of your thoughts. He plants his hands on his knees, rising with a soft groan.

"You two been spendin' too much time together."

Sheathing his knife, he crosses the clearing, taking the bow from Sarah. He observes the curve of the wood, holding it with a bit of unfamiliarity.

"Should we make this more interesting?" You cross your arms over your chest. "Closest shot to the bullseye. Loser has to do laundry for a month?"

Sarah lets out a taunting "oohhh," giddy for her father's response. Your smirks widens, knowing he won't easily be able to back out now. You've never seen him handle a bow. You're confident in your skills.

His expression shifts. His hazel eyes brighten like boughs of light, a smile nearly teased out. A spark of playfulness that has flickers of heat licking up your spine.

Then his lips curve upward, and you feel your face fall.

You might've just made a huge mistake.

"Deal."

He takes an arrow and squares his body perpendicular to the target, looking a lot more fucking comfortable with the weapon than he had a second ago. Doesn't fumble as he notches the arrow, and pulls back the string with ease. Your gaze unwillingly settles on his arms - bare for once, his flannel shucked due to the warm weather. Muscles flexed, his forearms remain steady, unburdened by the bowstring's tension.

Then he releases the arrow.

It flies across the opening, and you watch with dread as it sinks into the hay-stuffed burlap dummy.

Dead center.

Yeah, you've made a huge mistake.

He's not smiling but you know he's feeling smug as fuck right now. You want to strangle him. You want to strangle yourself. You should've known better than to test his freakish talent of handling anything that has the capacity to kill.

You avoid his gaze and take the bow, swapping places with him. Your nerves are frayed, despite Sarah's half-hearted encouragement (even she knows you're fucked). You load an arrow and pull back the string like you have hundreds of times before.

You let it fly. The arrow thwips!, burying into the target.

It's a good shot, but it's not as good as Joel's.

Story of your life.

You lower the bow, seething.

"I believe that makes me the winner." You can hear the smile in his voice. It makes your stomach swoop for some reason. You turn around and muster the meanest glare you can, face burning red. "Make sure you get my socks too."

Asshole.

"God, it's so hot out."

Sarah walks beside you, balancing on the trunk of a fallen tree with the concentration of an Olympic-medal gymnast. Only when you follow your complaint with a low groan does she finally glance up at you.

"Texas summers were a lot hotter than this."

You fan your cheek with your palm, but it doesn't give you any relief. The air feels like an open oven. You glare up at the sky, cursing the nowhere-to-be-clouds, wishing they'd block the sun's light.

"Yeah, well, you forget. I'm not from Texas."

She watches a fat drop of sweat roll down your brow.

"I can tell."

Joel's gone off to resume his route while you and Sarah make your way back to the cabin. The two of you walk without urgency, occasionally taking breaks beneath canopies of tall oak trees. You're not exactly in a hurry to go back. The inside of the cabin feels just as warm as the exterior. God, you missed air conditioning.

"So what'd you used to do in the summers back at home?" You ask.

"Well, my dad worked a lot, so it was usually just me at the Coleman house. They were our neighbors. I remember baking a lot. Doing puzzles. Reading."

You unwillingly think of Sarah's mother. It's something you try to keep tucked away in the back corner of your mind, but it occasionally surfaces. Like right now, you're wondering what happened to her. It sounds like she wasn't around pre-Outbreak, either. Does Sarah remember anything about her? Does she miss her?

There's a flicker of sadness when you think about Sarah holed up with a babysitter all day, and even more so when you think about Joel - a single father, struggling, just trying to make ends meet.

"But when my dad got home from work, we'd always watch a movie together." She adds with soft fondness, like those were memories she tightly held onto. It nudges a smile out of you.

"Like the Terminator?"

She wrinkles her nose.

"He said I was too young for those. But sometimes he'd fall asleep halfway through them. So I'd sneak out of my room and watch the endings."

You laugh, and you can't help but paint that sweet image in your mind.

The two of you keep hiking through the wooded area, throwing out some half-hearted "would you rather?" questions, sometimes left unanswered because even the effort of answering them in this heat felt too great. You cross one of the forest clearings, swatting at clouds of gnats and flies. Through a curtain of trees, a pond opens up, circled by large rocks and marsh grass. You pause, peering into the water. Doesn't look too scummy.

You turn to Sarah.

"Should we stop for a dip?"

She grows timid in a way you're unfamiliar with.

"I don't know," She gnaws on her bottom lip. "I'm not a great swimmer."

"All the more reason to get some practice in, then." You say, already shrugging off your boots. "Come on. I'll help you out."

You skipped the bra today, so you keep your shirt on but shuck your pants. Sarah follows suit, and the two of you carefully traverse the pond's rocky edge before wading into the cool water.

She's a better swimmer than you expect. Just needs some confidence. Encouragement. You teach her how to do a backstroke, watching her glide from one end of the pond to the other. When she gets bored of that, the two of you launch into a full-out splash war, laughing and squealing as you try to dunk one another in the water. Then you float on your back while Sarah practices some underwater handstands. Eyes closed, you let sunlight and water wash over your skin.

You're not sure how long the two of you swim. By the time you pull yourself to the pond's edge, your fingers are soft and pruny. Settling on a boulder, you watch Sarah swim on her own for a bit, letting the sun dry your clothes.

Out of the corner of your eye, there's movement. You twitch for your handgun (which you'd stupidly left out of reach) but then you relax when you realize it's just Joel.

He approaches you, one thumb tucked under the strap of his rifle. He looks tired and hot, lips downturned into that miserable scowl. Sweat soaks his shirt. The material sticks to his chest, and you can make out the hard lines of his muscular torso. He's usually so buttoned-up to the neck - you're still not used to seeing him. Your gaze dances away.

He stops beside you, just at the water's edge, and you become overly aware of the fact that your pants lay discarded behind you. That you're stripped down to your underwear. How water beads along your bare legs. How your shirt clings to your breasts. You cross your arms, trying to hide your body.

But he's not looking at you. His eyes are pinned on his daughter.

"Told ya'll to head back."

"Yeah, well," You relax a bit and uncross your arms, wrapping them around your bent knee. "We got a little sidetracked."

"'S reckless," He murmurs, but there's no heat. It helps when Sarah grins and waves at him, shouting "Hey, dad! Check this out!" Before launching herself backwards, performing a few backstrokes across the pond's surface.

The two of you watch her for a while, smiles cracked, quiet contentment making the sweltering heat less unbearable.

"So, how'd you become such a marksman?" You peer up at him after some time. "Or are you going to finally tell me that you're some kind of super-assassin robot? If I'm going to clean your socks, I think you at least owe me an explanation so I know you didn't cheat."

He doesn't react to your quip. He releases a sigh, like it's owed.

"Had training."

"Were you military?"

"No. Not military." He trails off, but he doesn't say anything else. Vague as usual. You return your attention to the water, dipping your foot just below the surface of the pond. The sediment swirls around your toes.

"You wanna get in the water? Or are you worried about your parts rusting?"

He doesn't say anything. He awkwardly shifts his feet, fingers adjusting along the strap of his rifle. The air feels thick with heat again.

"Sorry," You mutter, though Joel should be the one apologizing for always killing your vibe. "That was just a joke."

A breath huffs out his nose.

"Pretty crappy joke."

Oh? It's delivered flatly, but not unkindly.

"Doubt you know the criteria for a good joke."

"I know good jokes."

"Prove it. Make me laugh, Miller."

He falls silent, and you assume he's abandoned the conversation. Sarah's flopping into the water backwards like a seal, seeing how big of a splash she can make.

"Used to tell Sarah not to get into pillow fights," He says, the words measured. "The risk for concushion is too high."

Oh my God. He can't be serious. But he... Actually told a joke? It's not funny. It's not funny at all.

Still, that godawful pun has your mouth tugging upward.

"Fuck you," Your voice is breathy with laughter. "That was terrible."

His lip twitches.

"Pretty sure that was a laugh I just heard."

"I laughed at your sad little attempt at a joke."

He shrugs.

"Laugh's a laugh."

"Fine. Your pathetic little dad joke was so bad that it made me laugh. Happy?"

He chuckles once, eyes crinkled at the corners. You take in his softened features, wanting to frame the image of him like this, tuck it away somewhere in your ribcage so you can visit it later.

"Found an old book of puns and brought it back for Sarah. She seemed to enjoy 'em."

"Oh, great. So you're passing your bad sense of humor onto your daughter, too?"

"I 'spose you think you have a good sense of humor, then?"

"I do." You reply, matter-of-factly. "I'm hilarious."

He chuckles softly.

"You're somethin'."

For you, the conversation halts. Your breath nearly trips over itself.

You're... Something? What does that mean?

Before you can muster a response, he calls out to his daughter, letting her know it's time to head back. Sarah groans but relents, making her way back to the shoreline. Joel looks away as you dress yourself, shoving your feet through the legs of your pants.

You're something.

Something. What is something? Did he mean that as an insult? A compliment? You know he probably didn't mean anything by it. Most likely, you're so batshit crazy that he just literally has no idea what to call you. Something is an anomaly, you decide, and God, you feel pathetic. Desperate for compliments from this man; a dog begging for table scraps. Turning your brain inside out trying to interpret something Joel likely didn't give a second thought about.

But... The way he said it, loose like an afterthought. Like it was something he didn't mean to voice. No, it didn't seem like an insult.

You spend the rest of the evening unnecessarily in your head.

Why did it sound like a confession?

Exhaustion isn't enough to chase away your nightmares.

You dream of gnawed flesh and bloody gums and red eyes cast in shadow. The images swirl in your brain, scramble your guts. You wake with a start and rush to the bathroom, but thankfully nothing comes up. You remain curled up on the bathroom floor, hair clinging to your neck in damp strings, even after the nausea's passed. Angry. Frustrated. Tired. So fucking tired.

You're brought back to that open valley, when those two men attacked you. The trauma grips onto you tightly, unrelenting. But it's not the memory of their faces that linger. It's the helplessness. You hate that feeling. Hate it more than their faces.

Later that morning, you find Joel outside, parked on his usual tree stump. He sits hunched over, reading glasses sliding down his nose as he carefully carves a small knife along a shaved piece of wood. You watch from a distance, unable to make out the shape he's carving.

He pauses mid-stroke, detecting your presence. He peers at you from over the top of his frames.

Swallowing your nerves, you approach him.

You stand over him, meeting his questioning gaze. You tip your chin high.

"Teach me how to fight."