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boygiwrites · 1 year ago

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Harley D. Dixon 24

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📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

Almost a whole MONTH later, and I've finally got the next chapter to share with you guys. 😭 To make up for the wait, I made this one extra chunky. Just over 10,000 words. Enjoy reading!

"What about you, Maggie?" Lori's voice comes from downstairs. "Can we get you anything?"

"Naw, that's okay. I just wish my Dad was here, that's all... House feels so wrong without him."

Plodding back down the stairs, I find the three women sitting in the living room together, still talking. They look like a group of friends like this. I quietly take a seat next to them on the vintage sofa, hugging a cushion to my chest. I think I'd rather be out in the woods, laying in a patch of sunny dirt or climbing a stumpy tree, but I wouldn't make it five feet past the fence, not with Dale on watch. So I'm better here.

"He always knows what to do." Maggie muses sullenly. She got a weighty, tired look about her. "Guess I feel wrong without him, too."

"You're doing your best." Lori reassures her. "Those three, they're good at what they do. I'm sure they'll be back with your Dad soon."

She gives a little huff. "Good at killin' folk. We heard what happened to Shane, y'know. Not like it's a secret."

She's right. Ain't a secret. It's the opposite. Everybody knows Rick shot his best friend in the chest and my Dad finished the job.

"It sounds bad." Jacqui stammers, 'cause it does. "But there was no way they were gonna let him take off with Harley. No way in Hell."

"I'm not sayin' they would've," She lilts, "And I don't blame 'em. But I'm just wonderin' what that might do a person, what it means for 'em."

"It means they'll do whatever it takes to protect their own." Lori calmly explains. "Whatever happens after that is worth the trouble."

"Rick's a good person, Maggie. So is Daryl. So is Glenn. Life is so different for us now that goodness doesn't look the same, anymore."

"I've never had to kill for my family." She fiddles with a stray thread on her jeans. "Life ain't thrown that at me, yet."

"Well, one day, it will." Lori says truthfully. "And when it does, you'll still be a good person, too."

"There was a moment, with Glenn." Her gaze flits between two vague points on the floor as she speaks. "At the pharmacy. We'd split up to save time. I was in the back by myself, pickin' around for meds, and these... these two cold hands grabbed me. They were so much stronger than I thought. I couldn't pry 'em offa me. I couldn't... I had my gun on me but I couldn't. Glenn had to do it for me."

I've had those hands on me before. I can tell she can still feel them on her, too, by the way she shivers. Gross. Best to ignore it.

She shakes her head. "I guess the definition of murder's a lil' skewed nowadays. It ain't always in cold blood like the bible says."

"It isn't." She agrees. "Putting down Shane wasn't all that different from putting down a walker, and we just have to be okay with that."

My body goes cold all at once. I lock eyes with her across the room, dark and cutting. She got no idea what it was like watching him be lured, tricked, the life beaten out of him punch by punch. Nobody should be okay with that. It ain't the same. "How can you say that?"

He was human. I know, 'cause when I held his hand, it was warm. He could think, and feel, and hope. He could bleed.

She gapes a little, glancing at the other women like they'll know what to say. "I— I just meant—"

"He weren't dead." He was somethin' more complicated than that. I know he's gone, but Rick said he'd cherish his memories of him, the good ones, the old ones that are a little harder to recognise, so I will too. "He was sick and hopeful and alive. He was in pain when he died."

"Sweetie," Jacqui breathes beside me, brushing back a lock from my temple, pulling me into a hug. "We know that."

"I'm sorry." She sighs. "I can't... I can't imagine what that must've been like. For any of you. That was insensitive of me to say."

"It weren't nothin' like killin' a walker." I definitely ain't the brightest crayon in the box, but I still know what I saw was murder. It's just somethin' that you can feel, like my heart stunting right before the blood shot out Shane's back. Lori can pretend all she like, but it was different. Rick's a murderer, through and through, and so's my Dad, and so's almost everybody else, but we can still love 'em.

"I guess I just wish it was." She confesses a little sheepishly. "It'd make things a whole lot easier that way."

As Jacqui releases me, I frown, thinking of Dad. "Well, he is a murder. That's what we gotta be okay with."

Looking like somebody who doesn't, she mutters, "I know."

"Whole world's gone to horseshit." Maggie comes out and says, in a sudden way that almost makes us laugh. "Makes sense we would, too."

Jacqui grins, quirking a brow. "And we got that famous tater soup to get us through it, too."

"I think if anybody'd understand that, it'd be Harley." I feel my cheeks flush under her warm, green gaze. "How was Beth, by the way?"

"She seemed," I hesitate, afraid of saying the wrong thing. I'm good at doin' that. I could tell her that her baby sister thinks all she's good for is dyin', that she's revolted with herself just for bein' alive, but that's not the important part. "She seemed like she was sorry."

That surprises her, like she ain't think it was possible. Her face lights up a little as she asks, "She talk?"

I give a nod, making Jacqui snort, impressed. "We been tryna crack her since yesterday. Hardly given us a second glance."

"This is good." Maggie decides. "Y'know, that girl ought'a be sorry. Scared me and poor Daddy half to death, pullin' that stunt."

Maggie's real tough on the outside, 'cause she likes it that way, but it's obvious how on the inside she been worrying for Beth. Losing family to a gunshot, or a bite, or an unlucky mistake is awful enough, like the massacre at the barn, but to have 'em taken away from you 'cause they wanna be — That's a whole other brand of pain. I know they'd all be devastated if Beth had really died.

"Speaking of Herschel," Lori says, "You think he'd know anything about getting Harley a hearing aid? Types, sizes, things like that?"

"Ended up getting worse, did it?" She hums, even though she already knows, just so she can make a sympathetic face. "Well, I don't think his veterinarian knowledge will shine too bright there, but we had some old family friends who were deaf and hard of hearing." She says this part like Carl did, as if the existence of other deaf people will make me feel better. It don't really. "Picked up a thing or two."

"You wouldn't happen to have any spares left over, would you?"

"Naw," She regrets telling us, "They all lived separate to us."

"Hang on. That works." Jacqui butts in. "You got a whole list of addresses Rick and Daryl can hit for a hearing aid."

Oh, she's right. Search wouldn't be so blind that way. It's a strong start, and Rick and Dad have proven a strong start's all they need.

"Yeah. Suppose we do." I'm sure it ain't feel the best, having your old friends' houses looted, especially knowing the reasons they wouldn't exactly need their belongings anymore, but that don't stop her from giving us her blessing. "When they're back, I'll write 'em down for you."

"That would be an incredible help." Lori smiles, reaching out to cup her shoulder. "Our group would appreciate it very much."

"Told y'all," She drawls with her own weaker smile, grabbing her hand, squeezing it. "Ain't no trouble. Your problems are our problems."

It's starting to feel more like there ain't two groups on this farm, just one bigger, stronger one. I think if anybody were to look in on us without knowing who we are, they'd have a great deal of trouble tryna figure out who belongs to which side. I like that.

She gives her a grateful look before pulling away, nodding lightly. "The same goes for you."

"Thanks, Maggie." I mutter shyly, forcing myself to at least say that.

"Wouldn't just leave you hangin' like that." She tells me. "If you need a hearing aid and we can help you get one, it's as simple as that."

"Hey, I just had a thought. Do I have to learn sign language?"

Walking down the pebbled path with Carl in the late morning, lugging heavy buckets of water, I send him a deadpan look.

"English is hard enough, y'know." He says with a grunt. "But if that's gonna be your language, I'll learn."

When we reach the gate to the cow paddock, I toe the peg off the ground and push it open. "How 'boutchu just stop talkin' altogether?"

"Eugh. No." He cringes, following me through. The gate clicks shut behind us. "That sounds awful."

We make our way through the wispy, dry grass, trying our best not to spill too much water along the way. It ain't like we can't get more — The well on this side of the farm is conveniently walker-free — but we promised Maggie we'd do a good job filling the troughs for her. They're these bathtubs made of metal that cows and sheep like to drink from. They must have real big stomachs to handle all that water.

"You saw Beth, didn't you?" He asks as we haul the buckets onto the ledge, tipping the water in. "She's sad, isn't she?"

"Nah, she's more than sad." I explain. "She's, like, depressed. Doesn't wanna live."

He pulls back with a pout, squinting against the sun. "Doesn't wanna live?"

"Don't wanna live, wants to die. Same thing." I shake the last droplets out. "She's in shock. S'why she cut herself like that."

We fall back into step together, but I almost trip over myself when he comments sadly, "Kinda like you, right?"

"What?" I exclaim, "No. That's stupid."

The herd of black cows start to meander over at the sight of fresh water, the deep honk of their moooos carrying on the breeze.

"It's not stupid." He counters rather weakly. "Since Shane and Sophia died, you've been more than sad, too."

Just like his Dad, Carl pays more attention than I thought he did. I huff, "Well, ain't everyone?"

"I guess." He holds off on blurting his next thought, until he just can't hold it in anymore. "You're not gonna do what Beth did, right? Because that's what would make me sad. You're my best friend. Even if you were only in second grade. I-I won't have anyone to push on the swing, otherwise. I won't learn any new facts about mushrooms. I'd rather read you my comic a hundred more times than seeing you do that."

I stare at my boots as they scuff the dirt, step, step, step, so I don't gotta look at his round, freckled face.

"Mom and Dad say I have to be nice to you. But if I need to slap you to get those thoughts out your head," He warns, "I'll do it."

That makes me snap my head up. He puffs out his chest a little, juts his chin out. He don't look like the slapping sort at all.

That's an honest to god chuckle coming out my mouth. A soft, fond one. "You don't gotta hit me, Carl. I swear it."

As we come to a stop in front of the crumbling well, he tests out the feel of my answer in his head before nodding. "Good."

"And me, I'll hit ya, anyway." I joke, giving him a shove. "So hurry up and fill yer bucket, 'fore my hand slips and catches yer cheek."

His mouth lifts into a tiny smile. I don't got a real good way of saying it, but I'm lucky to have a boy like him as my best friend. I wouldn't lie to him like that. We lost Sophia already. Another grave would break him. It'd break everyone. My Dad would wanna stop living, too. Much as I can't handle the constant blows life keeps sending us, I can't handle that, neither. So, no. I won't do what Beth did, even if I really want to.

We make the back-and-forth trip from the trough to the well a handful more times before they're filled all the way up.

Before we leave, we give the cows some friendly scritches on their huffing snouts. They seem happy with their simple lot in life.

On the way back up the hill, we pass the oak tree again. Really, it's a graveyard, but I like calling it the oak tree better 'cause it don't feel so terrible to say. But in the end, it don't matter. It feels terrible anyway, 'cause there's Carol kneeling in front of the white roses, sniffling into her hands. Me and Carl share a look. She hasn't left the RV in days. I ain't sure what she does in there, but I imagine it looks a lot like this, shedding misery all over herself. I guess she decided to finally visit her daughter's grave. I bet she ain't even believed it was real 'til now.

I grab Carl's hand to tug him along so we can leave her be, but she's heard our footsteps. She looks up at us.

"You know," She croaks, sounding like she ain't slept for days, neither, "We'll see Sophia in heaven someday. She's in a better place now."

His fingers coil tighter around mine. We both know Sophia's actually just in that hole, which ain't a better place than anywhere.

"Heaven's just another lie." He blurts. My eyes go wide. You ain't meant to say that part aloud. "And if you believe it, you're an idiot."

I yank on him again, giving him a stern look, but he ain't budging, and Carol already heard him loud and clear anyway.

"That's a very nasty thing to say." She scolds him tearily, before standing and hurrying away.

As soon as she's out of earshot, I turn on Carl with my bucket reared back and smack him with it, but he dodges and I smack him again and he dodges, and the scuffle goes on like that for about a full minute. "You damn moron, why'd you go and tell her that? Now I'll really hit ya!"

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" He bickers, tryna steal the bucket off me. "No such thing as heaven. You die, you rot in the ground, and that's it."

He quickly side-steps another swing, so I just throw it at him and it clatters at his feet. "But you don't go tellin' people that!"

"I'll tell my Dad you threw a bucket at me!"

"I'll tell my Dad you're a stinkin' jerk-face!"

"That's a swear word!" He annoyingly quips, before taking off in a sprint up the path to escape me.

I snatch up my bucket and set off after him. "Hey! Get back here!"

I sure got a big mouth and a meaner streak than any other kid I ever met, but even I wouldn't've said that to Carol. Believing in heaven ain't gonna get nobody killed, so I say let her be an idiot in peace. All he managed to do was make her sadder than she already was.

I'm much faster than him so I'm about to grab the back of his shirt when Lori quickly steps in.

"Hey, hey, hey." She grabs my wrist and pulls me back from him. "Stop it. Both of you, this is ridiculous."

Before she's even finished speaking, Carl gets his defence in. "Mom, Harley threw a bucket at me."

As I roll my eyes and shake Lori offa me, she raises her brows. "Well, Carl, from what I heard from Carol, you might've deserved that."

"You can't go around willy nilly, calling people names." Carol tells him, her mouth a thin line on her tear-streaked face. "It's not right."

"Think about it. We've all gone through a big loss recently, and Carol doesn't need this right now. It doesn't matter if our beliefs—"

"But you know she's—"

She shushes him. "Don't talk. Just think. It's a good rule of thumb for life. Now you're gonna apologize to her, okay?"

I try not to get a little kick outta watching him begrudgingly recite, "I'm sorry I called you an idiot for believing in heaven."

No you ain't, I feel like saying just to annoy him, but I hold my tongue in case that gets me in trouble, too.

"Thank you." Carol accepts his apology 'cause it's the good thing to do. "I just hope you'll learn some manners from this."

Right as he's about to turn back into sassy Carl, Lori talks over him with a simple, "He will. And Harley, you think about your manners, too."

Oh, come on. "I only hit him 'cause he was bein' bad!"

"That's the problem, honey." She mutters awkwardly. Oh, right. That sort of punishment is bad. I forgot, but I don't even know why. "I'll have to talk to your Dad about that... In the meantime, you guys gonna get along or do we have to sort something out here?"

We mull over whether or not we wanna keep fighting, but we're the only kids here and we're best friends, so the choice is already settled.

She takes our silence as a positive. "Good. Now, go play nicely for a while. Shouldn't be long before the others get back."

Carol follows after her, much to my satisfaction, to go sit at the picnic table together, and not to slink back into the RV. I hope I'll see her around more often now, for her sake. Ain't good to be cooped up like that. Rick said that once.

Stuck with Carl again, I wordlessly drop my bucket in the dirt and sit against the fence. He could go play on his own, read a comic or somethin', but instead he follows suit and settles at my side, a non-annoying distance between us.

He quietly suggests, "You wanna bet a cookie on how long it's gonna take for 'em to get back?"

And of course, I say yes.

Carl's fallen asleep on my shoulder by the time the cars appear at the end of the driveway. I shake him awake, ignoring his blubbering, what, what is it. I get up and go running down the hill to greet them. It took them about an hour to get back. That means I earnt myself a cookie. There's Herschel, sitting in the passenger seat of Rick's car, by the looks of it, totally alive. Dad's truck lurches to a stop nearby. He hops out, and as I clock the brooding look on his face, I realize I got more than just a cookie to be worried about.

"Daddy, what's wrong?" I ask cluelessly, a little sad I didn't get the chance to hug him. "You ain't hurt, is you?"

Carl jogs up to my side. A few others gather around as Dad yanks the back door open and, holy shit, hauls a full-grown man out by the elbows, throwing him into the grass. We both jump back as if the stranger's diseased. What in the Hell?

As Rick comes around the car with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder, Lori exclaims, "Who the Hell is that?"

The door slams. The man groans in pain as he's forced to his feet by both men.

Ain't no friend of ours, I got that much figured out. He got a bag over his head and two vague pits for eyes, skinny torso, a bloody leg.

"Oh, fuck," He panics as they drag him like a sack of bricks through the crowd. "Oh, fuck, please, no."

Rick simply grunts, "Welcome back, Jim."

My jaw drops. This crippled man, it's Jim. They found him. Or they ran into him. Or they—? Did they capture him? As Glenn guides Herschel outta the car and Maggie rushes over to them, I stay with everyone else, tailing Rick and Dad and Jim, 'cause yeah, that's really him. Those are his lanky limbs and that's his dark arm hair and his broken wrist-watch right where it always was. I weren't expecting this at all.

"What's going on?" Dale demands to know. Exactly what I'm thinking. "What on Earth are you—?"

"Please," Jim begs. "My leg — It- It needs surgery. The tendon, it's fucked— I can't—"

"Ran into some fellers in town." He gruffly explains. "He was runnin' with 'em. Got his leg daggered on a fence."

"Running with them?" T-Dog gapes in confusion. "Wasn't he shacked up in some dingy little tent, last we knew of him?"

"Please, my leg— My le-leg, it hurts so bad—"

"He got a story to tell, alright," Dad growls, taunting him through the fabric, "But man ain't so loose-lipped as he used to be, is he?"

"Man, I duh— I don't even remember saying those things about your kid," He whines, "I swear. That was so long ago now."

"You got nun' to swear on, ya useless shit. You keep talkin', you won't even have yer life to swear on, ya hear me?"

"Oh, fuck," He goes back to chanting, "Oh, fuck, please, no."

Dale scoffs, "So, what, he's back with the gang, now, Rick? This is insanity!"

"We keep him in the shed 'til he talks." Is all he offers as explanation. Lori grabs me and Carl by the shoulders and pulls us back, away from the struggle of limbs and blood, as Dad kicks the shed doors open. They're gonna lock him in there, like a prisoner.

They muscle him inside. We keep hearing cries of, you assholes, I need surgery, as they tie him to a post with the rope.

"Shut up!" Dad snarls, forcing him down. "You ain't worth a damn q-tip right now, let alone surgery!"

"Ran into some fellers?" Jacqui repeats with uncertainty to Lori, who's got no clue what it means. "I thought it was just us around here."

I did, too. Us, cows, sheep, and the sky. But there's fellers out there too, now. I don't think anybody likes the sound of that.

"No, please! Please!" Kicking and thrashing, like that day in the parking lot again. "I'm gonna bleed out before I can tell you anything!"

Rick retorts with one last brutal tug to the rope, "You best start gettin' your story straight, then."

"No, you fuh— you fucking assholes! You can't do this! It's inhumane!"

The doors close on him without mercy, sealing him inside the stuffy darkness.

"He's right, Rick." Dale argues, trying and failing to get a good look at his sweaty, blood-speckled face as he braces the doors with more rope. He got that spooked predator feel about him that I only ever saw on him once or twice before. "He needs medical attention, and now."

"Herschel repaired his calf muscle last night." He shakes his head, turning to face the group. "Pain's only gonna help him talk."

I break away from Lori and wrap my arms around Dad's waist, burying my face against his ribs. He instinctually cradles my head.

"Listen." Rick holds a hand out in front of him, his gaze dark and feral, chest heaving. "For the safety of everybody here, I've decided this is what has to happen. I'm not taking chances anymore. We found Herschel in town, holed up in that bar just like Maggie said, but we weren't the only ones. Couple'a big-mouthed tough guys got in the way and I dealt with 'em. They was with a bigger group, and we picked up Jim on our way out. Camped in the woods for the night. So far, he's told us a whole load of nothin' about these folks."

"What do they want?" Andrea asks, lookin' ready to go hunt them down right here and now.

"What we have." He answers with a shrug. "Source of food, water, stability. It's gotten bad in town. Nothin' left but walkers and rats."

I glance up at Dad through my screwed brows, 'cause bad folk steal what they want from the people who got it, and that's scary. I don't want those men to take our fresh cheese and bread, our swing, our wells. He gives me a strong look, soothing his hands through my hair.

"It ain't like they know where we are." He reassures us all. "I doubt they're gonna be ridin' down here like Jesse James."

"Not yet," Dale scoffs, unamused. "How long until they do?"

Jacqui adds, "We got that horde to think about, too, don't we?"

"I am figurin' it out." Rick scolds loudly, scaring everyone into silence. "Christ's sake, I killed my best friend yesterday. I am trying."

There's nothing to argue against that with. Trying is all Rick Grimes does. He does it for us. Nobody can fault him for that.

"But, Rick," Lori apprehensively mutters, as if he hasn't quite thought it through yet, "There's a dying man in that shed."

"I know that, Lori." He quips a little harshly. "Of course I know that. You think I'm enjoyin' this?"

"We should at least start considering what his future is gonna look like." Dale suggests.

"Yeah, man." T-Dog agrees. "I mean, he talks. What then? What's the plan?"

"The plan is he talks and then I kill him."

When Rick says this, I feel like I'm looking at someone who looks an awful lot like the Rick Grimes I care about, but ain't actually him. That's how I'd expect someone to announce they're going on a supply run or taking next shift for watch, not that they're gonna end someone's life. Maybe Maggie was right about him being changed after murdering Shane, because I ain't never heard him talk like this before.

Another murder. My second one. Shane first, now Jim. I'm going to be ready for this one. I'll be strong.

"You can't." Dale lies. We all know it only takes a bullet, and we got plenty of those. "You can't, Rick."

"I don't recall asking for any feedback." He sounds tired. "There is no discussion on this. Not this time. He talks and then I kill him."

As he walks off, the group share startled, disturbed looks, because nobody's okay with this, right? Nobody's actually letting this happen? But the fact is anything Rick says is gonna happen is gonna happen, 'cause Shane's dead and we need a leader, and without anybody really hashing it out or realizing how it turned out this way, seems like that's gonna be Rick from now on. He's doing this to protect the people he loves, same reason he killed Shane, same reason he does everything. It's like Jacqui says. This is what goodness looks like now.

Dale goes running after him, probably to waste his breath some more convincing him to change his mind.

With Rick gone, the next person everybody looks to for guidance is my Dad.

"I'm with Grimes." He warns before they can hassle him. "I wanted that skinny bastard dead the day we left the quarry, y'all know that."

Rubbing at the fine wrinkles on her forehead, Lori sighs, "I don't like this."

"Can't we just take him out to the main road once we're done with him, give him a canteen, send him on his way?"

"Nah, we've done all that before." He frowns. "And his new boys, he'll go crawlin' back to 'em, tell 'em things we'on want 'em knowing."

"Man, this is fucked." T-Dog tsks, turning away.

Dad retorts, "Yeah, what else is new?"

"Look, there's nothing we can do. Did anybody really like Jim, anyway?" Andrea levels in that blunt way she got. "No. So, I say fuck him. The guy's good as dead anyway. It's clear where his loyalties lie, and it sure isn't with us. Now, who's gonna stand watch?"

"I will." Dad answers. "Gimme 'bout ten minutes, I'll take up watch. T can take graveyard."

"Maggie has a plan for that hearing aid, Daryl." Lori says as heads up. "You might wanna go check that out when you can."

He nods in thanks, reminding Andrea not let anyone near the shed, before grabbing my hand and walking over to the house with me. I glance over my shoulder at her, arms crossed over her chest, holster back-lit by the midday sun. She'll be good at ignoring Jim's pleading.

As I turn back around, Dad asks, "How ya been while I was out, chicken?"

"Fine. Helped cook. Did chores." That's not what's on my mind, though, or on his. "Jim gon' die, ain't he?"

"Yeah," He tells me straight. He don't add much else, 'cause there ain't really anything else to add. "He's gonna die."

Unlike some of the others, I know I can't stop it. I couldn't stop the bullet that killed Shane, so why would I be able to stop this one?

People who don't fit in right, people who put us in danger, they get killed. Jim got a whole new group. They ain't lookin' to be our friends. That's danger. Sum' I learnt from all this is that you're better killin' off the problem before you get hurt by it. It's what we do with vermin, like rabbits and bugs. Maybe that's a morbid thing to say. I know Dale would think so. Jim's just a normal man, dyin' in a shed. He ain't killed nobody. But neither did Shane, and look at all the damage he done anyway. Maybe if we killed him to start with, it wouldn't've been so cruel.

"Alright." I settle on. I wouldn't stop it, even if I could. I said I weren't gonna be stupid ever again. So I say fuck him, too.

Dad glances at me. He knows this is how it's gotta be, so that's where the conversation ends.

We step up to where Glenn, Maggie, and Herschel are standing together at the bottom of the porch steps. He looks a little shaken up, his shirt grimy and his suspenders wonky, but he's still standing, which is all that matters. It could'a gone a lot worse for him.

"Bethy's gonna be fine, Dad." She says sweetly. When she notices us, she smiles. "Hey. Thanks for your help, Daryl."

Dad gives a little shrug, 'cause he never liked thanks. "Don't worry 'bout it."

It's clear how much Herschel is loved by his family. I wish my Grandpappy Dixon could'a been a little more like him.

"But I heard from one'a the women you got somethin' for me about a hearin' aid?"

"Oh, right." Her mood dampens a little at the mention of it, but she knows he means no harm. "We were talkin' about it earlier. I offered to give y'all the addresses of some people we knew who might have what you're lookin' for. None of 'em are too far from here."

"That's good of ya." He nods, grateful. "We got our hands full with that shit-sack Davison, but we'll find the time."

Glenn frowns in confusion. "Wait, what's all this about? A hearing aid?"

"It's for Harley." He explains and looks down at me, squeezing my hand. "That gunshot messed her hearin' up pretty good."

"Oh, man. That's unlucky." He gives me that soft, mushy look everybody been giving me. "So you're, like, deaf in that ear?"

"Yeah." I murmur, nervously tugging on the nub under my hair. "And half-deaf in the other'un."

He looks at Dad. "Let me know if you need any help searching, man. Anything I can do to help."

"I'on know if Rick's gonna be up for it way things are, but I'll head out sometime tomorrow if I can. Won't fuss if you wanna join."

"And that business with your friend there in the shed," Herschel says, "Whatever you do with him, please just keep it to yourselves."

"Well, we weren't plannin' on a public execution." Dad shrugs. "Rick'll wanna do it in the barn, I reckon. Y'all won't see nothin'."

"Good." He sighs, even though none of this is good. "I'm not saying I like it, but I know better than to impede on your... politics."

"That what it's called, huh?" He murmurs sardonically.

"C'mon. Let's get you inside now." Maggie gently guides him away. "Thank y'all both again. I'll get that list to you when you need it."

As they climb the porch steps together, Dad gives me a kiss on my forehead and tells me he's gotta go guard the shed now, handing me off to Glenn to walk me back to main camp. Because I guess they don't want me impeding on the politics, neither.

Dad's not actually on watch. I get that now. I watch the little shed sit there in the distance. There's nobody standin' outside the doors, and they wouldn't just leave Jim unattended like that. So that would only mean that he's inside the shed, doing what people do when they're tryna make someone talk. I can't see through any of the boarded-up windows or the little loft space that looks in, but I don't need to.

Jim don't deserve this, but I think we're a little past getting what we deserve. It ain't my fault he's suffering.

Shane's bones are breaking again. I'm half deaf, but I hear them just fine, and the blood, the cries, the smack of fist on muscle. I thread my fingers through my hair, grip and twist and pull on it, like the memories are in the roots and I can rip them out and throw them away and be done with them, but I can't, so I just drag my hands down my face and throw my head back against the tree I'm sitting under. On the other side of the leaves, the white ball of the sun shining down. I take a few deep breaths. In and out, nice and slow, like Dad showed me.

We been through so much. Escaped and killed and hurt so much, just so we can live. If Jim were to ruin that, or his fellers were to ruin that, I would wanna beat his face in, too, 'til it was just a piece of meat balanced on a neck. That, he would deserve.

It's as I'm staring at the clouds floating across the sky, that the brim of a cowboy hat enters my vision.

I know it's Carl before I look at who it belongs to. He says something I can't hear, holding out a granola cookie to me. I assume that's the cookie he owes me from the bet, and that he's telling me I can have it, so I take it from him. He settles down to my right.

"I tried to get one without raisins," He says apologetically, voice clearer now. "But Glenn kinda ate them all already."

"'Course he did." I take a big bite. "It don't matter. I like raisins anyway."

He pulls a bit of a face, because nobody likes raisins. "I'm just gonna forget you said that."

We fall into silence after that. There's nothing to talk about except the hostage in the shed and the fact his Dad is gonna kill him soon, and maybe raisins, but nobody likes talking about raisins. You know, there's lots of different types of killing. There's mercy killing, which is what the vet did to Tank. It's what Dad does to any deer we find half-dead on hunting trips, or ones suffering on the side of the road after they weren't ran over all the way. Then there's self-defence killing. That's for walkers, and people that wanna kill you. There's killing for food. We do that all the time. And then there's murder, which is almost the same, but feels a whole lot different.

"How do you think they're gonna do it?" Carl suddenly asks, his tone dull, neither here nor there.

I pause. It. Killing Jim. I don't know how they're gonna do it, but Dad says it'll be in the barn. They got ropes and rafters in there.

"Maybe hang him." I guess, but that don't feel right. "Prolly just cap him in the head, though."

"Is that what they did to Shane?"

Bones breaking. Fist on muscle. A spike of blood. I shake my head with a simple, murmured, "No."

He knows better than to start guessing what did happen. "Well... How'd your Dad kill Ronnie?"

Huh? "How you hear about that?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Heard Maggie talking to my Dad about it."

I didn't think anybody else knew about Ronnie. I've always been told it's a bit of a taboo story, and I shouldn't talk to Meemaw or any kids at school about it. But if anyone had a problem with mine and Dad's past, I would'a known about it by now.

"That was my Dad and Merle." I confess, after deciding I can answer this question. "They didn't shoot him. They chased him into the woods and beat him so bad he ended up dyin'. Then Merle ran away for a bit and Dad went to prison."

"Guess both our Dads are murderers." A sentence I've never heard before. "Do you ever wish you were more like him?"

"Nah. I couldn't get any more like my Daddy if I tried." I'm my Daddy's girl. I'm just cursed that way. I got his little moles and his nasty glare, his dirt blonde hair and his short temper. I got all his good parts and all his bad, painful, thrown-away parts running through me, and I poke my tongue out when I skin animals, and I hurt the people I love. I guess the only gene I'm missing is the one that lets him lock it all away. I ain't strong like that, but I don't wanna admit that to Carl, or to anybody. I don't wanna admit I'm weak. "What... What about you?"

Carl's got his Dad's blue eyes and his goodness. Oh and of course, his hat.

He considers the question for a long time. "I'm not a very good protector. I've never killed anything."

"Well, you ain't got a gun, do ya?" I try joke, swallowing the last bite of cookie. "How you meant to protect anybody?"

It don't make him laugh. "Be serious."

"Carl," I say a little frustratedly, "I've killed two walkers and watched a man die by now, and I can tell you it don't make you any tougher."

I don't know why he can't see that, especially with his parents arguing over by the fence the way they are, getting louder by the minute.

"Kinda just messes things up." I mutter. "It's horseshit, like Maggie says."

I watch Rick pinch the bridge of his nose as Lori shouts at him.

"You know what," Carl cringes, "Maybe you're right."

"Do you think they're arguin' about Jim?"

We both know they are. "Yeah."

I like Lori. She doesn't laugh at me when I can't spell something right. But if I were Rick right now, I'd bust a damn gasket and scream somethin' like, leave me alone, woman! Because the last thing I'd want is somebody badgering me on this. He said it himself. He doesn't want to kill Jim, but he doesn't have any other choice if he wants to keep us safe. He's stressed enough without this nonsense.

Instead of that, though, Rick exclaims something totally different, just loud enough for me to hear.

"You're pregnant?"

Oh, Lordy. She told him?!

Carl whirls on me like this was my doing. "Did he just say pregnant?!"

I don't get time to reply before he gets up and runs over to them, calling out excitedly. I knew he'd be happy. But I don't know so much about Rick. He threads his fingers in his hair, taking a step back. The look on his face is the same one Dale used to get when the RV suddenly started making a strange noise and he had to figure out how to fix it. I don't even think Lori meant to tell him. She just blurted it out.

"Cat's out the bag, I guess." Glenn muses lightly from nearby, as Carl wraps his arms around his Momma's belly.

She seems a little shocked, too, but she still returns the hug and kisses his fluffy hair.

I can't hear them anymore, so I walk over to Glenn and ask him eagerly, "What're they sayin'?"

"He's asking if it's a boy or a girl," He relays to me, "But they won't be able to tell until the baby's born."

"When's that happen?"

Carol approaches us with a fun little smirk. She must've overheard as well. "In about nine months, if everything goes right."

That's almost a year. Where are we gonna be a year from now? A lot can happen in one month, let alone nine. Will there still be eleven of us, or will there be less? We gonna make it to twelve? I'm not sure how having a baby at the end of the world works. I think ya need lots of medicine and a little beanie to put on their head, but we don't have those things. We only have each other, a vet, and some aspirin.

Lori and Carl walk back into camp together. He's smiling like he's swallowed the sun.

"I'm gonna be a big brother." He exclaims, as Carol gives Lori a supportive hug. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Pretty cool." I agree, but I can't help glancing over his shoulder at Rick, who's slumped against the fence, head in his hands.

"You heard? God. I don't want this to be made a big deal out of." Lori mutters to her. "It's not good for anybody."

"Don't be silly. I think we could all do with a little hope around here. What's more hopeful than a baby?"

"I'm talking about..." She whispers this next part.

Carol smiles sadly when she pulls back. "Don't worry about that. He's out of the picture, now. Just focus on Rick."

"Hey, if the baby's a girl," Carl suggests, "Can we name her Sophia?"

"I think that would be lovely," Lori says very earnestly, looking to Carol, who seems to also like that idea. "Guess we'll have to see."

The two of them get sucked into conversation with Glenn after that, and it looks pretty serious, so me and Carl are left on our own again. He continues babbling about the baby, and I try my best to listen, but I'm distracted thinking about how Glenn's no longer keeping an eye on us like he's meant to, and Dale's facing the opposite direction on watch. We could sneak off to the shed without anyone noticing.

"And if it's a boy, we can name him Nate. You know, like Captain Nate and the Awesome Eight. The comic I read you, remember?"

I don't know what's gotten into me, but I ask him with no warning, "Wanna sneak into the shed?"

His grin fades, until there's nothing but apprehension on his face. "But we're not allowed. I thought you said you hated getting in trouble."

"I thought you said you wanted to be tough like your Dad," I retort. I do hate getting in trouble, but I wanna get inside that shed a whole lot more. I wanna see what Dad's done to Jim, see what happens to people that put us in danger. "Come on. Nobody will see us."

"I don't know, Harley." He mumbles. I never thought I'd be the one coercing him into mischief. "It might not be safe."

"Safe? When since do you care about being safe?"

He hesitates to answer. "It's just, I'm supposed to look out for you. And I'm gonna be a big brother soon, so I gotta learn how."

"I ain't your practice-sister." I scoff, feeling a little offended. "I don't need no big brother to take care of me. I taught you to shoot."

"I just wanna keep you safe like the adults do." He says more sternly now, like I'm being unfair. "Like my Dad does."

"Well, I wanna go smack the shit outta Jim," I sass, "Like my Dad does."

With that, I turn on my heel, making a beeline for the shed. It don't even take him five seconds to give in and follow after me.

"No, no, Daryl, c'mon, man, please. We used to be on the same side. You don't have to do this."

"How many in yer group, huh? I said, How many?!"

Whack!

I pull Carl with me around the corner of the shed, ducking down into the grass, holding a finger to my lips. On the other side of the wall, Jim groans. It sounds blubbered, as if his gums are swollen and his lips are fallen off. I peek through a tiny hole in the wood.

"Thuh— Th- Thirty." He answers breathily. It's dark in there, but I can make out both their figures. "Thirty. Thirty guys."

"Where?" He growls, pacing around in the shadows. "Where they camped?"

"Why— Why the fuck would I tell you, huh?" He sniffles wetly, but it's not snot. "I'm dead, anyway, man! Fuck the whole lot of ya!"

"You wanna put this whole farm in danger, is that whatcher sayin'? You're a smart-mouthed piece'a shit?"

"You're the ones who left me!" He shouts, kicking and pulling and wriggling against the rope like a feral creature itching for a fight. He's never gotten along with our group. Given the chance, I know he'd throttle any one of us. "Maybe I should want you to pay!"

"The feeling's mutual." He snarls. There's a little, wait, no, before he rears his fist back in the air, and then a disgusting cracking sound as it comes down on his cheekbone. Carl whispers in my good ear, what do you see, but I don't answer him. I watch as Dad crouches, his face mere inches from the bruised mess that's meant to be Jim's, staring him down like if he does it hard enough, he can kill him just like that. "I'm only gonna tell you this once." He warns, his voice a rumble. "My little girl is on this farm. If you breathe the wrong way. If you make a funny look I don't like. If you take too long answerin' me 'cause you're chokin' on yer own blood, and that puts her at risk..."

Jim's bloodied neck bobs under a heavy gulp, his chest shivering with shallow puffs.

"I will kill you so slow... you'll be beggin' to eat a bullet." That's far from an empty threat and he knows it. "You understand me?"

"Yeah. Yes. Yes." He nods. "I'm not tryna be smart. I'll— I'll talk."

"Let's try this again, huh?"

"They move around." He confesses. "They never stay anywhere more than a couple nights. That's all I know, but they got guns. Heavy stuff, like automatics. I used to clean them. That's why they let me stay, after they found me camping in the woods. I went with them b-because they had food, but that's all gone, now. They're branching out. I swear I had nothing to do with the other stuff. I swear."

"You just happened to be there last night, is that it? Tryna tell me you're innocent?"

"I've always been innocent."

Liar. I remember him snarking to my Dad that the trip out the quarry to save my life wasn't worth it, that it was a waste of our gas.

"If you're memory's that bad, buddy, I can crack yer head open and we can sort through yer brains together, how's that sound?"

"Like a f-fucking nightmare." He slurs. "Always is with you."

Dad's about to break his other cheekbone in when Andrea calls out his name. I pull away from the peephole just as he turns around, my heart racing as the creak of the old doors come, then their voices. I can't make any of it out like I would'a been able to before my hearing went to shit, which makes me a little jealous of Carl, but I can tell the point at which one of them walks away 'cause there's silence.

With the shed quiet and empty, Carl points above my head. "We can get in that way."

The loft. It hangs over a pile of rotten wood laying in the overgrown weeds. It doesn't look like an impossible distance to climb, so I give him a nod. He follows me out, warning me to, be careful of splinters, which almost makes me roll my eyes because he really does think he's a mini grown-up now. I ignore him and hop onto the planks. He jumps up onto the loft first and then rolls onto his tummy and pulls me up after him. He asks me if I'm alright, which of course I am, so I duck through the opening and climb down the ladder.

My boots hit the straw, then his. I can't believe we're really in here. This is way worse than sneaking into the woods.

"Who's—? Who's there?" Jim startles, peering at us through his puffy eyelids.

I step into the single beam of sunlight shining down on the dirty floor, and only then his face morphs with recognition. I stare him down. He looks exactly the same as he did at the quarry, but scruffier, angrier, splattered with blood. It's what I must look like, too.

He actually starts laughing, an empty laugh. "Harley Dixon... My fucking luck."

"Be careful." Carl mutters from behind me.

The laughter catches in this throat, a phlegm-y knot that he spits on the floor. "He's right, kid. Your Daddy thinks I'm dangerous."

"I ain't afraid of you," I take great satisfaction in telling him. I've never been able to say that to anybody before. I been scared of Merle, been scared of Grandpappy Dixon, scared of Shane. But I out-lived all of them, and I'll out-live Jim, too. "You're nothin'."

"I thought you died on the road, you know. They always do." A grin creeps onto his lips. "But not you, huh?"

Not me. I been scratched, trapped in a horde, chased, lost, stabbed, taken and shot at, but no. "Not me."

"I'll be dead soon." He lilts uncaringly. "I'm not gonna beg. No you. Not anyone. I know it's coming. Your Dad, Rick, or... Even my own leg. Something's gonna kill me, and I'm not gonna fight it." As he speaks, his head lolls to the side and he gazes out at nothing. "You can't. Can't fight gravity, can't fight nature. Can't fight death. I tried, though. All of it, I tried, and here I am. Pissin' blood in a shed, waitin' to die."

"I ain't never cared for no sob story." I scowl, moving into his line of sight, crouching down. "'Specially not yours."

He glares at me through his dark brows. "You're a little s-shit-stain, aren't you, just like your old man."

"None of us ever liked you, neither."

"Whatever happens after I'm gone," He sneers, breathing heavily, so heavily I can feel it huffing and puffing on my forearms, "You're all gonna deserve. F-for being so cocky. Thinkin' you're better than everyone else, thinkin' you can cheat death. For leaving me."

"Whatever happens after you're gone," I retort just as angrily, "We sure ain't gonna spend it missin' you."

He bares his teeth, straining against his bindings to get in my face, but I remain stony, like Dad would. "You— You should've never made it out that quarry." He rages under his breath, "They can give you all the— all the hugs and kisses in the world, but when they tell you everything's okay, they'll still be lying. It's what I told my wife and my two boys a hundred times, but it didn't matter."

The louder he hisses the words at me, the wetter his eyes get.

"They came out of nowhere. Dozens... and dozens. Pulled them right out my hands." His voice cracks. "The only reason I got away was because the dead were too busy eating my family. I was meant to die with them. I was. And you— you're just a little kid. You should've died to those scratches. You're supposed to be dead. All of you. You're all supposed to be dead."

Before I can stop myself, smack!

"You don't get to say that." I scold him, shaking out my stinging palm. "Only dead one 'round here is you."

He groans. "Shuh— S-sure."

The doors swing open. Andrea comes in, shock across her face as she realizes what's going on. She snatches mine and Carl's hands in her own and drags us out. We stumble as she throws us ahead, shouting something at Jim before slamming the doors shut again.

"What the Hell were you two doing in there?" She asks incredulously as she picks up the rope and re-binds the handles.

"Please don't tell our parents." Carl immediately begs.

Too angry to speak, I take myself over to the swing and plop down on it, rubbing at my red palm. I slapped Jim pretty good. If only we didn't get caught, I could'a done a whole lot worse to him, maybe even broken in his other cheek. He's a bastard for sayin' those things. We had our reasons for casting him out, and he sure as shit ain't bothered figuring out what they were. He's still as smart-mouthed as ever. I ain't even feel bad his wife and kids got eaten, 'cause that's just what happens now. He ain't special for letting it drive him mad.

"Listen, buddy," She scoffs as she turns around, putting her hands on her hips. "I won't, but that was plain stupid."

"We were only talking to him." He argues innocently. "We didn't do anything."

She raises a brow. "Oh, yeah? What was that slap sound, then?"

"It was me." I admit with a bitter tone, dramatically dropping my hands in my lap. "I cracked him for bein' smart."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you." She chuckles, seeming annoyed and amused at the same time. "You wanna die? Is that it?"

I frown deeply. Like I said, blunt. She's the only person outside my family who's ever given me a run for my money on that front. "Maybe I do," I sass her. "Maybe beatin' on somebody makes me feel a little better. You got a problem with that?"

"Not at all." She surprises me by shrugging. "I get it. But really, guys? Jim?"

"You want me to hit you instead, then?"

"God," She laughs. "Maybe if Beth had half the fire you got in you, she'd actually be worth something."

"Hell's that mean?"

"Means if you asked me for a knife like she did, I wouldn't bother giving you one. You'd find a way."

"Give her a knife?" Carl pulls a stank-face at her. "That was you?"

"She didn't have the guts to do it herself." She explains. "So I gave her the push she needed."

"Why would you do that?" He sounds betrayed when he says this, turning and taking my hand. "Come on, Harley. Let's go, now."

He pulls me off the swing and leads me away, a grumpy look on his face.

"Screw her." He exclaims. "Don't talk to her ever again. She's crazy."

"Sure thing," I murmur, too busy thinking about how I can sneak back in the shed again soon to sound all too convincing.

That afternoon, I relish in the gentle sounds of rustling leaves and little squirrels and birds chittering throughout the forest, the crisp breeze blowing through my hair. I've never really liked the cold all that much, but this is good. I remember when I was just a tot, around the first time I ever saw snow, I tugged on Daddy's sleeve and asked him, when we goin' huntin' today, but all he said was, can't, baby, all the game's hidin' away in holes. I was a little confused on that for a while. Couldn't the animals just put a coat and hat on like the rest of us? That was back when I thought the whole world was like it was in the cartoons. I learnt fast that it weren't.

"Heard you was beatin' on Carl today." Dad casually hums. I follow him along the trail, keeping an eye out for paw prints or broken twigs. September's almost over now, if it ever even was September, and Winter's on its way. Nature's one of the only things ain't changed, and I know the slim chances of finding game ain't changed neither, and so does Dad, but I think he don't care. "You wanna talk about it?"

He just wants away from the farm for a while, time where it's just the two of us. Even if we ain't catch nothing in the end.

"He was bein' a jerk to Carol." I explain, and that's putting it lightly. "So's I whooped him."

Surely Dad won't care like Lori does. He was the one that taught me to whoop stupid boys in the first place.

"Baby," He seems to struggle saying, before coming to a stop, facing me with a funny look. "You can't be doin' that no more."

Oh. He does. But, "I've always done that."

"Yeah, and so've I." He tells me. "I don't gotta tell you twice. Only time my fists ain't been swinging was when I was busy cleanin' the blood off 'em. But like I told you at that pond, I'm puttin' that behind me when it matters, a'right? That lil' scrape wit' Carl, that matters."

Only other punishment I ever got was time out. "You sayin' I should'a put him on a stump, instead?"

"I'm sayin' let his parents put him on a stump, or take his shit away, or whatever it is they wanna do. It ain't on you to dish that out."

"But Grandpappy Dixon and Merle used to beat on me, and they weren't my parents."

"Weren't on them, either." With an angry scoff, he turns back around. I chase after him. "Weren't even on me. Ain't none of us treatchu right."

I guess I should'a thought more wisely about laying into Carl. But I ain't ever practiced. None of my family have. Beat first, think later. Next to, Fuck the cops, that's always been the Dixon motto. But me and Dad, we gotta be different. There's more to us than our anger.

"Well, I'm gon' try treat everybody else right, anyway." I decide. "Next time, I'll just call Carl an idiot and leave it at that."

I hear him chuckle to himself. I guess that means it's a good plan.

It's at this moment that the honking trill of a deer sounds through the trees. Both of us stop dead in our tracks. He reaches for me, takes my wrist, pulls me behind a nearby shrub. I peek over the leaves, swallowing down a gasp. Rats on hats, there she is. A deer, with sweet black eyes like polished glass, and long, beige legs, walking through the underbrush as if she were made of it. I ain't seen a deer in months, not even when the weather was warmer. Guess I thought the dead ones ate 'em all. I almost forgot how magical they are. Merle always teased me for it, but I used to think deer were just unicorns whose horns fell off. I was always a little sad whenever we ate them.

Dad loads a bolt into his crossbow. I can't hear it, but I'm sure it makes the faintest click, because her big ear twitches, but she doesn't bolt. I watch her bow her head, munching on dead grass, as he lines the sight up with her heart.

He never hesitates to down a target, but this time he does. He watches her, too, then lowers the bow altogether.

I whisper to him, "You ain't gonna shoot?"

"Nah," He whispers back, "It's good just like this."

The deer grazes on the forest floor for a few more minutes, until she decides to move on.

After which, we do, too.

Author's Note.

Whew! Hope you enjoyed this one.

We finally ran into Jim again! Lots has changed since he's been with us, including Harley lmao. She's a menace.

Like I said in the last chapter's notes, I've been dealing with some motivation issues and just a creativity slump in general, so working on this chapter was a ride and a half 😩 Thanks for your support and patience as always. Your comments are what fuel me to write when I can't fuel myself 💙

@poetoflawed

#fanfic #the walking dead #daryl dixon #twd #angst #twd fanfiction #rick grimes #daryl dixon daughter #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #daddy issues

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oddtinspeas · 4 months ago

Text

Ms Maggie...

To give sth back and take it away next chapter is exceptionally cruel *said like I'm not loving the tragedy and I won't go back for more next week*

I feel so bad for Jace, what a horrible way to die and he wasn't even bitten by a zombie during zombie apocalypse but ended almost like he was. Cruel.

But I'm also relieved that Rio is still alive and I hope that he's going to help his precious wife, meaning Aegon obviously, recover and survive. Although I understand Aemond's point of view, Aegon is so pure and silly here, wanted to hold Jace's hand, oh sweety 😭💚

I also love Ice, because I'm a doggo lover and when Cregan said that they can eat her if he runs away I was like

Also Aemond shut the fuck up man. Shut your mouth, you tend to spite venom when you're feeling stressed, jealous and out of control, and this is human thing to do, but then I KNOW YOU ACTUALLY REGRET IT, so maybe just shut your mouth, think and then speak, you're so smart and yet so dumb, I can't with you. Not everyone can be as rich and educated as you, you privileged fuck. You ruined my hype gained when you laid in bed with the loveliest Chips not being in love with her at all after you said one of the most romantic things about her being an island.

My girl Chips deserves the best and not to die alone, being left by her new family 😭 That cannot happen, nah, I will protect her with my own body if needed.

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 7: Tell Me That I Won't Feel A Thing]

A/N: Hello besties! Thank you for voting in the poll for Chapter 7. Below are your predictions...let's see how you did! 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is back yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Give Me Novacaine” by Green Day.

Word count: 9.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Billboards ask you as the Tahoe flies across the flat emerald sea of Iowa: Have you heard the good news? Have you been saved? Where will you spend eternity? Are you struggling with same-sex attraction? Do you regret your abortion? Do you fear the Lord? Do you want to end up in Hell?

Aegon snickers, gnawing on a Slim Jim. The sun glare turns his wild hair to gold, etches crinkles into the ruddy skin around his eyes, murky like deep water, oceans you recognize from other corners of the world. “I thought I was already there.”

Jace’s Honda Rebel 300 is left on the shoulder of the highway with its fuel tank uncapped, drained to feed the Tahoe, prehistoric combustion, bottomless mechanical hunger. Rhaena takes over driving so Baela can sit with Jace, touch him, inhale him, convince herself he’s real. Aegon climbs into the passenger’s seat and skips songs on the CD player until he finds the one he wants: In Da Club by 50 Cent. The miles roll by so soft and so infinite that you can’t imagine ever feeling trapped again, warm July air unfurling down the darkest corridors of your lungs, hawks on lifeless power lines and fields dappled with white-tailed deer. And you think: Everything will be better now.

You cross the Missouri River and into Nebraska at Plattsmouth, which—according to a plaque mounted on the outskirts of town—the Lewis and Clark Expedition passed through over two centuries ago. Rhaena follows Aegon’s directions to cut between Lincoln and Omaha, avoiding the roiling wastelands of the cities and keeping well north of Cooper Nuclear Station, where in the absence of a successful manual or computerized shutdown before the power grid collapsed, rods of uranium are melting down and irradiating the surrounding area, anemia, cancer, heart disease, radiation sickness, an affliction that eats you alive.

Rhaena takes Nebraska State Route 66 north and then Route 92 due west, lush fields of corn and soybeans and sorghum planted before the dead began to walk, bones of devoured livestock. You stop for the night in a town called Broken Bow, the sky turning the colors of fire and rust and blood, the Tahoe exsanguinated like a man with a slit throat. Every vehicle you pass already has its fuel cap unscrewed; the farther west you go—the scarcer the resources, the longer it’s been since the world began to end—the less the earth will yield to you: less guns, less gasoline, less food, less human settlements scattered across what was once called the frontier. You commandeer a two-story house: white wood, wraparound porch, a long gravel driveway that winds like a snake. There is a small cornfield and a barn, both of which you sweep for zombies before making yourselves at home. You try not to think about what happened to the family that used to live here.

Helaena lights candles, Luke and Rhaena distribute bowls and silverware, Aemond and Rio gather kindling for the woodstove, Daeron keeps watch on the porch, Aegon picks all the Twizzlers out of a mixed bag of Hershey’s candy for Jace. There is a 12-pack of Ramen noodles in the pantry, gallons of water in the cellar, and a pot large enough to cook it all in one batch. Cregan takes Ice and disappears into the cornfield for half an hour at dusk—something none of the rest of you would ever consider—and reappears with an opossum that he’s nearly decapitated with his axe. He butchers it and you brown cubes of meat in a sauté pan placed directly on the glowing embers. The others are horrified and won’t eat a single bite until you do. It’s the first real food you’ve had since you left Saratoga Springs, and you feel satiated in a way you had forgotten existed.

In honor of Jace’s resurrection, some revelry is in order. There are bottles of Grey Goose vodka in a kitchen cabinet, and Aemond allows a two drink maximum for anyone eligible to participate: Baela is too pregnant, Daeron is too young, Aemond himself is too vigilant, too self-sacrificial, too indoctrinated into the religion of his own martyrdom.

“Daddy loved his screwdrivers,” Cregan says. “I remember being five or six and taking a big gulp of one thinking it was Sunny D or Tang or something. Lord almighty, was that a shock!” He guffaws, then inspects the pantry, scratching at the dark stubble on his cheeks. “We ain’t got nothing like orange juice though.”

“Mama made hers with Hawaiian Punch.” You point: there are several jugs of it on the floor between boxes of Pop-Tarts and Welch’s Fruit Snacks and Cheddar Whales, red like crushed blackberries or fresh blood.

Cregan grins at you over his brawny shoulder. “That’ll work, Miss Chips.”

Luke and Rhaena have first watch, Rio and Aegon will take the second. You are blessedly unburdened tonight. This house is big enough for you to get your own room; you climb the staircase with Grey Goose vodka burning in your throat, your head warm and dizzy, a sensation like freefalling as you lie down on the bed.

I left them, you think, the walls spinning around you, echoes of Mama’s voice through the phone as Rio stood there nodding, encouraging you to hang up. I left them and I never looked back. Can someone commit such an act of ancestral betrayal without incurring a curse?

You are still considering this when you feel Aemond’s weight on the mattress and fold into him, the world going dark and hushed and harmless.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I think it’s safe,” you tell Aemond between sighs, his lips on your throat, his hand between your thighs. Late-morning sunlight slants in through the bedroom windows; goldfinches and blue jays flap by chirping blithely. The dead pillage the misfortunate beasts of the earth, but creatures of the air and water are spared. You can hear geese honking from a distance, and the breeze through the cornfield, and calm indistinct voices beneath the floorboards. You can smell pancakes turning from white to gold in a pan sizzling with Crisco. Cregan must be cooking breakfast in the woodstove.

“How sure are you?” Aemond murmurs, his breath warm on your neck, those small teeth he’s always hiding nipping playfully, and if he leaves marks like stains of ballpoint ink you don’t care. He’s whisked every scrap of your clothing away. Beneath him you are bare and helpless and needing more.

“Like…eighty percent sure.”

“I’ll pull out.”

“Like Jace did?”

He laughs and kisses your mouth, not just ravenous but wild like a storm, and all the rest of the world goes quiet. Your ankles are linked around him, his hips rocking with yours. He is wearing only his boxers, black plaid from a looted Walmart, apocalypse chic. “Hopefully better than that.”

“Just try your best. I trust you. I’m willing to risk it.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s worth it to me.” I could be dead in nine months, he could be dead in nine months. I’m not wasting the time we have left.

“It’s your decision. You would be most affected by the consequences.” He draws away and glances down. “I want to look at you.”

“Ohhh.” You stall. “I’ve been trimming with scissors by candlelight. It’s a hack job.”

“I won’t mind.” He grins. “You don’t mind my hack job of a face.”

“I love your face,” you say as you skim your fingerprints down the length of his scar. And then, when he raises an eyebrow roguishly: “I didn’t break any rules. I didn’t say I love you, just your face. I’m totally using you for your face. Your personality is terrible.”

He snickers, kisses you goodbye, retreats to your hips and pushes your thighs apart as you cover your face and whimper, nervous, exhilarated. And then his lips are on you and the trepidation melts away, puddles pooling and then evaporating, and you have a vision of being home again, shivering and dripping in front of the crackling flames of the woodstove after playing outside in the snow and waiting for the fire to take the cold away. Now the fire is growing over you like ivy, tendrils snaking through veins and leaves opening in your lungs, bones vanishing, muscles turning pliant and weightless. You can feel Aemond’s fingers pushing into you, a fleeting second of tension and discomfort, and then a fullness that is delectable, irresistible, maddening.

“Come back,” you plead, and when he does you clasp his face with both hands, kissing him deeply as his fingers remain inside you, thrusting and bathed in your wetness. You’re finally ready for him, you have to be, you need him so badly: like you’re dying of thirst, like you’re running out of air. “Now, Aemond, please. I want all of you.”

And he wants it too. His boxers are gone and he’s positioning himself between your legs, his tongue in your mouth, one hand cradling your jaw as the other guides his cock to where you are slick and aching and aware of an emptiness that has never felt so dire.

He’s so big…

But you are determined to take all of him. You don’t care if there’s pain, if there’s fear. You want to feel what it’s like to be with him before it’s too late.

Aemond presses himself against you, rolls his hips cautiously…and nothing happens. He is a bit more forceful. There is immense pressure, then the beginning of a stretching that is sharp, searing, dreadful, unfamiliar in a way that is completely disorienting. You gasp before you can stop yourself; a wince ripples across your face too quickly to camouflage. Aemond shakes his head and climbs off you, settling beside you on the bed.

“Fuck,” you exhale in frustration, slapping a palm down on the mattress. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand why…why I’m like this…”

“Shh,” Aemond soothes, kissing you. “It’s okay, it’s fine. I’ll help you finish and then we can try again later.”

“Why isn’t this easier?”

“You’re just nervous,” he says gently, smoothing your hair back from your face, like it’s no big deal, like he’s pointing out a bird or a rabbit or the shape of a cloud.

“I don’t feel nervous.”

“It’s not always conscious, sometimes the body reacts without the mind even being aware of it. You tense up and things become…more challenging. But fortunately for us, the treatment is very enjoyable. We just keep messing around and working up to it until one day you’re so aroused and so relaxed that I can glide in without any discomfort whatsoever, and then your body adjusts to this glorious new experience and you aren’t so nervous anymore.”

“Can’t you just…you know…sorry, this isn’t very romantic, but like…shove it in?”

“I could, sure,” Aemond says. “If I was a horrible person. And then you’d learn to associate sex with pain, which would just exacerbate the situation.”

“The problem, you mean.”

He smiles patiently. “You aren’t a problem. We’ll figure it out, we have time.”

Do we? You stare morosely up at the ceiling, shadows of clouds, shades of wings. “I should have hooked up with that Marine at Corpus Christi. Then I’d have practice. I was so afraid of giving a man the power to hurt me or get me pregnant or otherwise ruin my life, but I didn’t know I’d meet you one day. And now I just want everything to be easy for us, and it isn’t.”

“Hey.” Aemond turns your face towards his. “For me, you are…” He struggles to decide on the words, his eye drifting to the window, sunlight turning the blue of his iris to a shallow, glass-clear river. “You’re like an island, and everything else is a sea of poison, and violence, and catastrophically fucked up situations, and when we’re alone together it all goes away for a little while. The world gets quiet. It’s never been like that for me before. I don’t mind if it takes time for us to figure this out. I just want to be with you.”

“What happens when we get to Nevada, and you’re supposed to turn south for the Bay Area while I go north to Oregon?”

Aemond shrugs, but his expression is contemplative. “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe we’ll all stay together and go to one place, then the other. If Odessa is safe, I can bring my parents, Criston, and Grandfather there. If it isn’t, we can bring Rio’s family south and live in California in that beach house on the cliff.”

“I never thought I’d set foot in a mansion.”

“I never thought I’d eat opossum.”

You laugh and curl up against him, resting your head and a palm on his chest. “How was it?”

“Not too bad, actually. Kind of like dark meat chicken. A little gamey, but I like lamb and venison, so that’s fine with me.”

“Just wait until you try bear.”

“Bear?!”

There is a knock at the bedroom door. Luke’s bashful voice is muted through the wood. “Aemond?”

“Yeah?” Aemond replies impatiently.

This was not an invitation, but Luke doesn’t seem to know that. He opens the door, and as he does Aemond throws the blanket over you so you’re covered, leaving himself completely exposed.

Luke begins: “I’m really sorry, I didn’t want to bother you, but…” His eyes go wide. “Oh, you’re like, all the way naked.” He turns and stares at the wall to be polite. “If it’s a bad time, I could come back in five minutes. Do you need more than five minutes? Wait, that was rude, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sure you can last way longer than five minutes…um…”

Aemond sighs. “What’s wrong, Luke?”

“Jace is sick.”

“Sick?” Aemond sits up straighter, his eye narrowing. “Sick how?”

“He’s been puking since he woke up.”

You and Aemond exchange a startled glance as you clutch the edges of a blanket patterned with wild horses. Illness, virus, plague, curse.

“He hasn’t been bitten or anything,” Luke says quickly. “So it can’t be…you know…that. And he and Baela don’t seem that worried. But you should probably take a look at him.”

Aemond nods, less alarmed now. “I agree. Can I get those five minutes first?”

Luke smiles. “Yeah. See you downstairs.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

You look to Aemond. “Why—?”

He yanks the blanket away and drags you towards him. “I said I was going to help you finish,” he says, grinning, a hand slipping between your thighs.

You bite at his lips when he kisses you and tease: “I don’t need your help.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But it’s better when I’m here.”

And he’s right; it is.

~~~~~~~~~~

Daeron is out on the front porch sharpening sticks into arrows and using goose feathers for fletching, attaching them to the wood with a tube of Gorilla Glue that Helaena found for him. Helaena herself is presently floating through the house—soundlessly, ethereally, traceless like a ghost—and partaking in what you all call “apocalypse shopping,” pilfering the clothes and accessories of the former occupants. She seems to know everyone’s sizes without needing to ask. Aegon, Rio, and Cregan are sitting in the living room and eating pancakes off paper plates, carelessly spilling Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup on hideous 1970s couches ornamented with scenes of pheasants and autumn leaves. Down on the Turkish-style area rug, Ice is merrily chomping her way through a stack of burnt pancakes.

“So Cregan,” Rio says, his bare feet propped on the coffee table. “What did you do before the whole zombie situation?”

“I was a lumberjack.”

“No way!”

“Yes sir. I cut down trees for the power company.”

“What a coincidence,” Rio says around a mouthful of pancakes. “I was an electrician!”

“Well how about that? We oughta go into business together once the world straightens itself out. Where’d you work?”

“All over. Wherever the Navy sent us.”

Cregan sets his fork down on his plate. “You were enlisted?”

“Yeah, me and Chips both. That’s how we met.”

Cregan, much to Rio’s surprise, seizes his hand and shakes it soberly. “Thank you very kindly for your service.”

“No problem,” Rio replies, then turns to Aegon. “No gratitude from you, huh?”

“I showed my gratitude when I let you have the last pancake, you ogre…”

In the only bedroom on the first floor, down a hallway and towards the back of the house, Jace looks worse than you expected. He is heaving into a reusable plastic popcorn bucket, gluey ropes of saliva dangling from his lips; his skin is pale and bloodless, his dark curls damp with sweat. Baela is perched beside him on the bed and holding a wet washcloth to the back of his neck. Rhaena and Luke are loitering anxiously in the doorway, watching Aemond to determine if they should panic.

Jace casts you a bitter glance. “You poisoned me with your poor people food.”

“There’s nothing wrong with eating opossum,” you say, somewhat defensively.

Aemond feels his forehead. “That wouldn’t give you a fever. And everyone else is fine.”

“Maybe I’m extra sensitive. My digestive system has higher standards. I’m built different.” Jace resumes retching into the bucket.

Baela tells Aemond: “He can’t keep anything down. There’s nothing left in him, but he’s still so sick…it has to be a stomach flu, right?”

“Who would he have caught it from?” Luke asks, and Baela doesn’t have an answer.

“Stand up,” Aemond orders Jace when his wave of nausea abates. “Strip down.”

“Aemond, he wasn’t bitten,” Baela says. “I saw his whole body last night. He doesn’t have any scratches or bruises or anything.”

“Fine. But I want to see for myself.”

Jace stumbles out of the bed, pushing away Baela’s hands as she tries to stop him. “Okay, Nick Fury. If you wish to gaze upon the goods, I won’t deny you. I’m not shy.” Aemond rolls his eye. You turn around to give Jace privacy. “What’s the matter, Chips? The only dick you’re interested in belongs to Mike Wazowski over there?”

“Jace,” Baela says, but she’s chuckling. Amused, you stare at a picture on the wall—a haloed Jesus guiding a flock of lambs—as Jace sheds his clothing and follows Aemond’s instructions: lift your arm, turn around, show me the bottoms of your feet.

“No bites,” Aemond confirms, deep in thought. “But the symptoms…”

“It’s not that, Aemond, I’m telling you,” Jace insists, rasping breaths between each clause. “Listen, I got sick when I was alone, before I found you guys again. My stomach, my head. Maybe it’s the same thing now. It didn’t last long, and I thought I was over it, but I guess not.”

“People don’t get better and then worse again after they’ve been bitten,” Rhaena observes softly. “They just get worse.”

Jace lies back down on the bed, his face crumbling with pain. Baela uses the wet washcloth to cool his cheeks and neck. “My head hurts so fucking bad…”

“Because you’re dehydrated,” Aemond says.

“Helaena brought pills, but every time I try to take one I throw it up before it can start working.” There is a gurgling sound in his guts, and then a horrified expression. “Baela, I gotta get outside again.” She and Luke immediately swoop in, grab one arm each, and usher him out of the bedroom, through the back door of the farmhouse, and into the cornfield to allow him some semblance of dignity.

Rhaena gives you and Aemond an awkward smirk. “Helaena found Jace a 24-pack of Angel Soft toilet paper in the basement. So there’s some good news.”

“He needs electrolytes,” Aemond says. “We can’t let him get so dehydrated that his kidneys shut down. IV fluids aren’t an option. Pedialyte would be the next best thing, Gatorade or Powerade if that’s all we can find.”

“We passed a pharmacy on our way here,” Rhaena recalls. “It’s only a mile back, I think.”

Aemond nods. “Then that’s where I’m going,” he says, and walks out of the room.

You say as you follow him: “I want to go with you.”

“No.” Aemond points to Rio, who is now playing Uno with Aegon on the coffee table in the living room. “You and I are going to a pharmacy to get Pedialyte for Jace so he doesn’t die.”

“Cool,” Rio says, standing and fetching his Remington shotgun from where he propped it against the wall. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know. Maybe food poisoning.”

Aegon says, a hand pressed to his heart: “Personally, I loved the opossum.”

You stare defiantly up at Aemond. “If Rio is going, I have to go too.”

“Aww, so you can protect me?” Rio teases fondly, patting your back with one monstrous palm, an unintentional battering.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Rio looks at Aemond. Aemond looks at you, touching his chin agitatedly. “You are stressing me out.”

“I’m the best shot. I want to be there in case anything happens.”

“Fine, okay, whatever you want. Just stay near Rio.”

“That’s the idea.”

“A pharmacy?” Aegon asks excitedly. “Can I go?”

“No,” Aemond snaps, and continues out onto the porch. In the gravel driveway, Cregan and Daeron are kneeling by the Tahoe and inspecting the front tire on the driver’s side. “What’s wrong now?” Aemond asks, exasperated.

“Got a flat,” Cregan says. “The little fella here noticed it.”

Daeron is mortified. “Please don’t call me that.”

Aemond peers around mistrustfully, out at the road, into the cornfield. “Someone sabotaged us?”

Cregan shakes his head and taps the tire. “Naw, we just ran over a nail yesterday. You can see it right here. A big one too, a masonry nail, I suspect.”

“Can you fix it?” Rio asks.

“I think so. I saw a jack and a lug wrench hanging up on the wall in the barn, now I just need a new tire, a real one. A spare wouldn’t do us much good, not with all the weight we’re carrying. It’d pop in twenty miles.” Cregan gestures to the main road, but westward, the opposite direction from the pharmacy. “Don’t remember seeing a tire place on our way in. Figured I’d try the other direction. I’ll walk ‘til I find a shop or a truck with the right kind of tires to steal from, whichever comes first. Can’t change a tire on gravel, though. I’ll have to drive the Tahoe out to the road and fix it there. I’m gonna need Rhaena’s keys.”

There is an uneasy lull as Aemond studies him. You, Rio, Daeron, and Aegon—who is lingering on the front porch, not yet ready to admit defeat—glance between them apprehensively. Ice is rolling around in the gravel, coating her grey fur with dust. “How do I know you won’t take off without us?”

Cregan’s face goes dark. His brow, heavy and furrowed, settles low over his eyes. “Look buddy, I’ve done a lot of things for you and your people that I didn’t have to. And now I’m fixing the Tahoe so it can take you west, someplace you decided we’re going. If you don’t trust me, do it yourself. Kill your own opossum. Change your own flat tire. But you can’t, can you? Just like I can’t shoot a zombie straight through the eye or tell you how to cure that sick boy in there. We’ve all got jobs here. Let me do mine.”

Aemond glowers at Cregan, knowing he’s right. Daeron averts his eyes; Rio, grinning, eats a handful of Cheddar Whales from a pocket of his cargo shorts. You lay a palm on Aemond’s forearm. “Aemond…he’s trying to help.”

“Sure,” Aemond replies crossly.

“You want collateral?” Cregan says. “Take my dog.” He whistles, and Ice scampers to his side. He points to you. “Go on, princess.” Ice obediently trots over to stand with you, shaggy ash-colored fur, bestial amber eyes like a rattlesnake’s. “She’ll look after you on your way to the pharmacy and back. And if the Tahoe and I have mysteriously vanished upon your return, you can eat her for dinner.”

“You don’t want a warning if you’re about to run into zombies?” Rio asks.

Cregan chuckles as he picks up his axe off the gravel. “Don’t you worry about me. We haven’t heard a peep since we got into town, and I’m just going a little ways up the road. Any less than ten of those abominations, and I can take care of myself.” He gives you and Rio a parting salute and strides into the farmhouse to collect the Tahoe keys from Rhaena.

Aemond turns to Daeron. “Stay here, keep watch. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Daeron nods, glancing to where his compound bow rests on the front porch. “Got it.”

“Aegon will help you.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says. “I want to go to the pharmacy too.”

Aemond is losing what remains of his patience. “No.”

“Please?”

“No!”

“Then can you at least bring me something back?”

Rio is confounded. “What do you need?”

“You know…” Aegon gestures vaguely. “Percocet, Vicodin, Oxy, maybe some of that cough syrup with the codeine in it—”

“Grow the fuck up,” Aemond flares, and Aegon falls silent. “You’re thirty years old. Take some goddamn responsibility for something, for anything. I have to go to the pharmacy, Cregan has to fix the Tahoe, someone has to stay here with Daeron to help protect Jace and Baela, and Luke and Rhaena, and Helaena too. Just shut up and do the right thing. You have to start acting like an adult. Who do you think is in charge if I get killed? I’ve never for a single day of my life had the luxury of making selfish choices, and now I feel like I’m not even allowed to die. Leaving everyone else with you would be like leaving them with nobody.”

Aegon gazes up at him, not offended but childishly, mortally wounded. His oceanic eyes are huge and glistening. “But you’re not going to die before me.”

“That’s not the point,” Aemond pitches back, cutting, caustic. Then he starts down the long gravel driveway towards the road. You give Aegon a small, apologetic half-smile and then follow after his younger brother, Ice loping alongside you.

Rio thumps Aegon encouragingly on one shoulder. “See you soon, Honey Bun.” And Aegon watches the three of you disappear, standing in the dazzling midday light with his arms folded over his chest and his hair in hie face, kicking at the gravel with the Sperry Bahama sneakers he once wore on yachts and golf courses.

“Please try to be nice to him,” you tell Aemond when you’re far enough away to be out of earshot. Rio is humming a song you don’t immediately recognize—probably Enrique Iglesias—and acting like he’s not listening. “You don’t know how much longer any of us have. And if that was the last thing you ever said to him, you’d feel awful about it.”

“You have no idea what it was like being his brother. Since I was born all I’ve done is try to plug the holes he blasts into ships. But there’s always water on the floor, I’m never done bailing it out. He needs to learn how to do things for himself.”

“Yes, he does. But he loves you, and he wants you to be happy. He would never intentionally take anything from you. He’ll grow into his purpose, whatever that is.”

“He needs to do it faster,” Aemond says harshly, and you walk the rest of the way without speaking, listening for snarling or lurching footsteps, hearing nothing but birdsong and wind whispering through leaves.

The pharmacy—a diminutive family-owned business, not a chain—has been ravaged. The glass of the large bay window has been broken out and the shelves looted, empty containers and wrappers littering the floor, crystalline shards threatening to gash, stab, infect.

“Stay out here with the dog,” Aemond tells you. Ice is panting calmly, her ears relaxed, her strange yellowish eyes taking in the scenery without any concern. “If she gets her paws sliced up, Cregan will have yet another accusation to levy against me.”

“You’re going to have to get used to him.”

“Not much of an adjustment for you, it seems,” Aemond says, then steps through the shattered window, glass crunching beneath his shoes. Rio gives you a wink and goes after him. They rummage through the remaining merchandise, strewn about randomly and interspersed among trash. Aemond peeks behind the counter where pharmacists once filled prescriptions and climbs over it, searching for any bottles or boxes that were left behind.

“Sorry guys, no condoms,” Rio announces, then laughs at his own joke.

“Be careful,” you urge from outside. “Look underneath, check the bottom racks. Rio? Rio, down low, check them!”

“Relax, ain’t nothing going on in here. It’s silent as the grave.” He laughs again. “Get it? As the grave.”

“Aemond?”

“I’m fine,” he tells you as he squints to read medicine bottles.

“Okay, okay,” Rio says, squatting to examine the shelves closest to the cluttered floor. “I’m checking all the racks. There’s nothing scary under the racks. Happy now?”

“Very. Helaena said something that freaked me out.”

“She can be a bit of an enigma,” Aemond admits. He is taking a tiny box from a drawer to keep.

“Oh, we got Pedialyte!” Rio says, yanking a jug of pink fluid from a pile of debris. “You think Jace likes strawberry?”

Aemond hurries over to help him hunt for more. “Yeah. It’s like a Twizzler, right?”

Ice noses your hand and whimpers softly. You look down at her. “What?”

She whirls and canters around the side of the pharmacy, then returns to make sure you’re keeping up. You go after her, slow and wary, a hand on one of your Beretta M9s. There’s nothing of note to be found in the narrow, shadowy alleyway other than an overflowing dumpster and two skeletons stripped of every shred of fabric and flesh; even the bones were licked clean.

You turn to Ice. “Did I need to see this?” She whines and shifts her weight from foot to foot, ears perked up. Something else? You look down the alleyway. Far behind the pharmacy and the shops that surround it is a church on a jade green slope, old-fashioned, white wood and a belltower. There is a cemetery beside it, and amidst the small grey blurs of headstones are… “Oh,” you breathe. “So that’s where the rest of the town is.”

The graveyard is full of limp, swaying figures that can only be zombies. You are far away and draped in shadows; you retreat back to the pharmacy without any indication that you’ve been spotted, Ice trailing close behind. Aemond and Rio are climbing out of the window just as you arrive. They are each carrying three jugs of Pedialyte in various flavors.

“Where the hell’d you go?” Aemond says; but he sounds more relieved than irritated.

“There’s a church about an eight of a mile away. And there are a lot of zombies in the cemetery.”

Rio sets his Pedialyte down on the sidewalk and reaches for the Remington 12 gauge hanging over his shoulder by its leather strap. “Okay, let’s go clear them out.”

“No, I mean a lot. Like a hundred.”

He freezes. “Oh.”

“We should leave town,” you say.

“While Jace is puking and shitting everywhere? You want to be stuck in a car with that?”

Aemond is thinking, toying with the little box you saw him pick up earlier. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

“What’s that?” you ask him.

He shows you the label. “Injectable morphine. All the pills were gone, but I found one vial of this, and I have syringes in my medical kit. It doesn’t need to be refrigerated. It should still be useable.”

“For Baela?” For when she delivers the baby?

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Just in case.” Then he looks at both you and Rio meaningfully. “Don’t tell Aegon I have this.”

“We won’t,” Rio promises. And Ice begins trotting back towards the farmhouse, as if trying to rush you along.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe is at the mouth of the long gravel driveway, still up on a hand-cranked scissor jack. The tire appears to be new, but the lug nuts haven’t been tightened, and the wrench is nowhere to be found.

“Cregan?” Rio says uncertainly, peeking through the cornstalks as they bend in the wind. “Hey, Cregan? Aemond’s sorry he was a bitch to you earlier. He wants you to return ASAP and do manual labor for him.” Aemond grimaces; Rio beams in reply. But Cregan does not appear.

You can hear them long before you reach the farmhouse, muffled chaotic chattering, raised voices and rushing footsteps. As you ascend the steps of the front porch, Rhaena bursts through the door.

“Thank God you’re back,” she says; there is blood on her hands. “It’s Jace, he…he…come look at him. Aemond, you have to do something. He’s sick, he’s really sick. He’s bleeding.”

“From where?” Aemond asks, urgent, bewildered.

“From everywhere,” Rhaena replies, and beckons for him to follow.

The bedsheets Jace is swathed in are blooming with crimson, flowers of doomed gore. Blood drips from his nostrils and his eyes; when he retches into the popcorn bucket, clots of pink and red spew out. Everyone is gathered around him and speaking at the same time, except Helaena. She is crouched on the floor of the hallway just outside his room, her arms wrapped around her bent knees and her face stricken. Ice curls up beside her.

Above the other voices, Baela screams at Aemond, a desperate horrified moan: “What’s wrong with him?!”

Aemond pushes by the others and feels Jace’s forehead, then grabs his wrist to measure his pulse. As Aemond’s fingers tighten, Jace’s skin rips beneath them, the top layer sliding off and leaving only glistening, raw pink. Jace howls, tears of blood streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t know,” Aemond says, his voice unsteady.

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know?!” Baela shouts back. “You’re a doctor! Fix him!”

“It hurts, Aemond,” Jace gasps, fresh blood on his teeth. When Baela touches his hair, locks of it fall out into her hand.

“He’s turning, right?” Rio says to you. “This is what happened to Snowflake, the blood and the skin and everything—?”

“He wasn’t bitten!” Luke insists, positioned in front of Jace’s bed as if he’s guarding it.

“I don’t care if we can’t find a bite mark, he’s decomposing for Christ’s sake, what the fuck else could it be?!”

Daeron returns with more blankets and towels. Aegon grabs a strawberry Pedialyte out of Rio’s grasp and tries to help Jace drink it. Cregan is muttering: “I ain’t never seen anything like this…”

Decomposing, you think dizzily. He wasn’t bitten, but he’s falling apart…what else does that to a person?

Baela cleans blood from his lips, a towel turning from snow to rubies. “Jace, baby, it’s going to be okay, we’re going to help you…”

“Could it be rat poison or something?” Cregan is saying. “Rabies? Mad cow disease? Ebola?”

“How the fuck do you think he got Ebola?!” Aemond exclaims. “You think he took a jet to sub-Saharan Africa when he was on his own? Use your brain.”

“I’m just trying to come up with ideas here, doc, and I don’t see you with any bright ones!”

He’s decomposing. He’s decomposing.

And then you remember. You kneel down beside the bed so you can look into his face, so you can make him pay attention. “Jace, listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” he replies faintly. He coughs, wet and gurgling. Fresh blood paints his lips. There are blisters beginning to form up and down his arms, you see now, the skin bubbling and separating.

“Jace, do you remember Three Mile Island?”

“What the fuck,” He is baffled, dismissive. “Three Mile what? Huh? What are you talking about…?”

“You’re upsetting him,” Baela says fiercely, tears glittering in her eyes.

But you are determined. “Outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, after we left Fort Indiantown Gap. There were these huge concrete cooling towers. We saw them from the Wawa parking lot.” But he wasn’t there when we talked about radiation. He was still inside searching for guns. “Remember, Jace? Do you remember?”

Now Aemond and Rio are looking at you, petrified, realizing what you must be thinking. No one else understands yet. After a long pause, Jace nods feebly. “Yeah. I remember the towers.”

“Good,” you say, smiling to encourage him. “Okay, this is important. After we lost you at the river, before you found us again, did you see anywhere that looked like Three Mile Island?”

“Yeah,” Jace murmurs as he stares back at you with glazed, bloody eyes; and Rio sighs and shakes his head. “I drove right by it on the Honda. The sign said Byron.”

And it’s been over for him since that moment.

“Alright, Jace.” You want to touch him, to embrace him or cup his cheek. You know it will only make his suffering worse. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to ask.” He begins to gag again, and Baela hurries to place the popcorn bucket so it can catch his liquefying organs. You turn around and walk through the doorway.

“What’s happening?” Aegon asks you, hushed voice, frantic eyes. He has followed you to the living room, along with Aemond, Rio, and Cregan. You nod to Aemond. He knows.

“It’s radiation sickness,” Aemond says, low and bleak.

“What?!” Aegon gapes at him. “I mean, are you sure…?”

“It fits all the symptoms. He was in close proximity to a nuclear power plant, something the rest of us have intentionally avoided. If there was a meltdown, there are miles and miles that are poisoned with radiation. Passing by on a motorcycle could definitely result in a lethal dose.”

“Poor guy,” Rio says. “Not a good way to go.”

“No,” you agree. It isn’t.

“So how do you treat something like that?” Cregan asks Aemond.

“It can’t be treated,” Aemond replies tersely. “Not here, not by me, not by anyone. Not even if the world was normal again.”

“What do you mean it can’t be treated?! Everything can be treated nowadays! Cancer, heart attacks, diabetes, hell, my cousin got testicular cancer and he was fine a month later, he even got to keep one of his balls!”

“Radiation sickness can’t be treated. He’s going to die.”

“But how is that possible when—?!”

“I need you to try to not be stupid for five minutes,” Aemond snaps.

You say quietly: “He’s not stupid, Aemond. He just doesn’t know about this.”

“You are always defending him.”

“Because not going to med school isn’t a character flaw.”

Cregan asks mildly, looking at Aemond: “Could you explain it to me?”

“It’s pennies in a jar, man,” Rio says. “Radiation stacks up and at a certain point it kills you. It destroys your DNA and your body falls apart. You can get it just by going near someplace contaminated, and you might not even feel it happen. And there’s no way to undo the damage. The pennies never leave the jar.”

Cregan raises an eyebrow at Aemond. “Was that so difficult?”

Aemond ignores him. “We have to tell Jace,” he says instead.

Back in the bedroom—a mineral stench in the air, coppery blood and the salt of sweat—Aegon sits on the edge of the bed and takes one of Jace’s swelling, blistering hands carefully in his own.

“Don’t hold my hand, you loser.” Jace mumbles, and Aegon respectfully releases him.

“Jace,” Aegon begins. “We think you have radiation sickness.”

Jace blinks up at him, wincing and disoriented. “Which means…?”

“Which means, um, it’s going to be…not great.”

“Why are you the person explaining this?”

“You’re right, I really shouldn’t be explaining it. Can someone else explain it…?” Aegon glances around hopefully.

“Jace,” Aemond says. “Those cooling towers you drove by were part of a nuclear power plant that melted down when the power grid collapsed. You received a fatal dose of radiation. It’s the only thing that explains what’s happening to you.”

“Fatal…?” Daeron ventures.

Rhaena gasps and reaches for Luke. Baela’s face is a mask of numb shock. Jace stares up at Aemond for a long time before he speaks. “Aemond, fix me.”

Aemond’s words are brittle and fracturing. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking around, man, you’re a doctor. You can fix me. I know you can. You’re a genius. You’re a total freak but you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Give me the pills, give me the shots. Cut me open if you have to. I won’t scream, I promise. Fix me. I trust you.”

“Jace, I can’t do anything. No one can.”

“I have to meet the baby, Aemond,” Jace whispers, scarlet tears bleeding down his cheeks. “I have to be here for Baela and Luke. Fix me, man. I’ll do anything you tell me to.”

“Jace,” Aemond says, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I can’t help you.”

Jace looks to Baela, Luke, Rhaena, and at last back to Aemond. “How long?”

“Not very. A few days, maybe.”

“Days?” he echoes, dazed. “What happens?”

Aemond shakes his head. You don’t want to know.

“Yeah I do. Tell me.”

Aemond can’t respond; clear silent tears snake down the right side of his face. Rio answers for him. “You continue to bleed out of every orifice and the rest of your skin falls off. And eventually you die.”

Jace breaks down in sobs. “I was trying to find you guys.”

Suddenly, Baela turns to you and Rio and Aemond, wrathful, hissing. “This is your fault.”

Aemond pleads: “Baela, please don’t—”

“You made me leave him at the river. I knew he was still alive, but you forced me to leave him. If he’d been with us, this never would have happened. But he was alone, and it was because of you. You did this to him. You stole him from me.”

Rhaena tries to console her. “Baela, no one meant to—”

“I just got him back!” she screams, and then shelters Jace in her arms as he clings to her, the skin of his fingers and palms flaking at the pressure, holding onto her anyway. No one knows what to say; everyone has tears burning in their eyes and embers in their throats. “Get out,” Baela demands. “Leave us alone. This is the last time I’ll ever have with him and it’s your fucking fault. So get out.”

And you leave them to their final moments, failing flesh in a dying world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Only Luke and Rhaena flit in and out of the bedroom, carrying soiled linens and the plastic popcorn bucket to be periodically emptied. The rest of you are engrossed in a grim, thunderstruck deathwatch in the living room. You discuss the inevitable in hushed murmurs. It is cruel to let Jace suffer; it is unspeakably horrible to let Baela witness it. Ice alternates between receiving scratches from Cregan, Helaena, and Aegon, never trying to enter Jace’s room. You can hear Jace and Baela talking in there, his retching and groaning, her sobs.

It is not until dusk that Rhaena summons Aemond. Luke is weeping as he paces back and forth in the bedroom. Baela is still sitting on the bed with Jace, resigned now. She does not apologize, but she doesn’t have any more venom to spit either. The rest of you watch from the hallway, keeping a respectful distance. Ice nudges your hand with her nose, but you ignore her. Jace’s bloody eyes roll to Aemond.

“I’m keeping you here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Aemond replies. There’s no point in lying.

“And I don’t need to feel myself melting like this for days. I get the idea.” Jace looks at Aemond for a while. His voice is anemic but calm; there are fresh blisters on his face and neck. “What can you give me?”

Aemond opens his medical kit and shows Jace the vial of morphine. “I found this at the pharmacy today. It would be painless, like going to sleep and never waking up.”

“Why do you have that?”

“I was thinking a small amount might help Baela during labor.”

“Is it the only morphine in your kit?”

“Yes.”

Jace nods. “Save it for Baela.” His gaze drops to the Glock in the holster at Aemond’s waist. “Can I borrow that?”

Rhaena stifles a dismayed yelp. Baela closes her eyes, but does not protest. Aemond says: “I don’t think you want to do this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Cyclops,” Jace says, smiling. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“It’s heavy,” Aemond warns. He clicks off the safety and gives the Glock to Jace. “Are you able to use it by yourself?”

“It’s a very simple two-step process. Barrel to skull, finger on the trigger. I think I’ll manage.”

Again, Ice bumps her nose against your knuckles; again, you barely notice. Baela kisses Jace on the mouth, her lips coming away bloody. Rhaena says goodbye to him, then Luke, whispered parting words you don’t try to listen to. Before Aemond exits, Jace grasps his hand.

“Take care of my family, Aemond.”

“I will.”

“Don’t let the zombies eat me afterwards.”

And then it becomes real. Aemond’s composure falters. “Jace…I’m so sorry…”

“Go,” Jace urges him. Then there is a coughing fit, fresh blood and pieces of stomach and lungs. “Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Baela is the last one to leave the bedroom; she shuts the door behind her. Almost immediately afterwards is a deafening bang. Baela sinks to the floor and wails, one hand on her belly, the other embracing Rhaena and Luke when they rush to her. Ice is whining and pawing at the floor, her nails screeching on the hardwood. Aemond alone returns to Jace’s bedroom and reappears with his Glock. He places it back in his holster, his scarred face vacant. There’s blood on his fingers, you see. Jace’s blood, the last he’ll ever shed. Aemond hasn’t noticed yet.

You reach for Aemond’s hand; he flinches away. You ask him, pained: “Do you think if you don’t touch me, it won’t hurt you when I die?”

“Please don’t say that,” Aemond responds in a hoarse, splintering whisper.

Ice yowls, and Cregan is abruptly aware of her. “Oh shit, the Tahoe is still up on the jack. I’ll go get it.” He opens the front door. Under the moonlight, there are upwards of a hundred zombies stumbling down the long gravel driveway. Everyone begins screaming. Cregan slams the door shut and shoves one of the couches in front of it. “What now?!”

“We go through the cornfield,” Aemond says as you are all frantically gathering your sparse possessions. “It will be more difficult for them to see us. We kill as many as we can and we make our way to the Tahoe. Cregan, how long will it take you to get it ready to drive?”

“Maybe a minute. But I’ll need someone to spot me while I tighten the lug nuts.”

“Sounds like my kind of job opportunity,” Rio says, pumping his Remington. Helaena gives you a flashlight. Cregan secures the lug wrench under his belt and picks up his axe. Rhaena has her Ruger out and is telling Baela to breathe, to stay focused, to let her and Luke lead the way.

Aemond comes to you and leans in close so the others can’t hear. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Not enough. Maybe fifty.”

“Do what you can. Stay near Rio.”

“I’ll try.”

Now there are zombies at the front windows, beating their spongy swamp-colored palms against the glass. Baela, Rhaena, and Luke are leaving through the back door with Daeron; you can hear the whizzing of his arrows and the sick soft sound they make when they pierce rotting meat. Under the weight of so many hands, one of the living room windows pops from its frame and clatters against the floor. You open fire, bullets exploding skulls and spraying brains, corpses jolting and then diving to the ground. You shoot until both M9s are empty, then pause to reload, boxes of bullets that Cregan gave you back in Iowa.

“Let them in,” Helaena says.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Aegon shouts at her. He’s firing his Marlin .22 beside you, quite poorly; Rio and Aemond are in the backyard killing any zombies that find their way towards the cornfield. “We’re not letting them get through the house!”

“Not through,” Helaena says placidly. “In.”

“Oh.” Aegon understands. “Oh! I get it! Trap them inside!” He races to the kitchen and tears the remaining bottles of Grey Goose vodka out of the cabinet, then begins spilling them onto the wood floor. “Helaena, give me a lighter.”

She places one in his outstretched palm and then leaves with Cregan as he escorts her away, leading her by her fragile hand. They vanish together into the cornfield, Ice on their heels.

“Time to go, Chips!” Rio booms; he can’t be far behind Cregan.

“We’re on our way!”

Zombies are pouring through the front of the house; another window has given way. You pull the trigger over and over again as you move with Aegon towards the backyard, his clear river of vodka drawing a path from one end of the house to the other. You hit the grass before he does, then wait for him by the edge of the cornfield. Aemond and Rio are shouting for Aegon to hurry up. He crosses through the threshold, flicks the lighter to life, and throws it into the house. His plan works—the farmhouse is abruptly aflame, cooking zombies like long-spoiled hams—but he neglected to realize that in his haste, he had also accidentally doused his own left leg and Sperry Bahama sneaker. The fire licks up over Aegon’s skin and blazes there radiantly. He shrieks and falls to the ground. Rio yanks his own shirt off and uses it to smother the inferno, then throws Aegon over one shoulder to carry him.

“Go to Cregan!” Rio tells Aemond, shoving him in the direction of the Tahoe. Rio will be slower now, but no one else could still run with Aegon’s added weight. “You and Daeron spot him until I get there!” When Aemond is gone, Rio glances back at you.

“I’m fine,” you say, felling zombies as they round the house. “Get Aegon to the car!” And Rio listens to you like he always does, vanishing with Aegon through the cornfield.

You weave through the leafy stalks, investigating each growl and rustling with the beam of your flashlight. Grotesque, fetid faces plunge through the greenery, and you demolish them. You’re in the rhythm now, wheeling for a target and locking in, squeezing the trigger and watching ghoulish faces disappear. And then you spy a zombie lurching towards you from fifteen feet away, a twenty-something in a red Nebraska Cornhuskers t-shirt making her way down the dirt aisle between two rows of corn; and when you pull the trigger, there is only a dry click in reply. Your other M9 is already empty. You’ve used all the ammo Cregan gave you.

“I’m out of bullets,” you say, but no one hears you; you are alone. Aemond always told you to stay near Rio and you never did. Too late, you realize what an oversight that has been. “Rio? Aemond?!”

There are human voices and gunshots, but reverberating from a distance. Far closer are snarls and groans of the dead. You click off your flashlight, drop to the earth, and crawl until you are as far under a row of corn as you can be, long leaves tickling the back of your neck and damp soil in your nostrils. Clumsy, lumbering footsteps trod by you. From the road, you hear the Tahoe’s engine start with a rumble.

They’re leaving.

You shake your head, here with no one to see you in the dark. Still, the thought persists.

They’re leaving. I left my family and now my family is leaving me.

“Chips, stay where you are!” Rio shouts. “We’re coming back, we’ll find you!”

You wait until they are within ten feet of you, Rio cracking skulls with his Remington—he must be out of bullets too—and Aemond firing his Glock. “I’m here, I’m here!” you cry, and they are lifting you up from the dirt and dragging you towards Tahoe, and Aemond puts his pistol in your hand knowing you can do more good with it. You fire ten rounds before the Glock is empty, and you think with terror: Do any of us have bullets left?

Then you are being helped into the Tahoe, and the second all the doors are shut Rhaena floors the gas pedal, heading west on State Route 92.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I got my drugs after all,” Aegon rasps as Aemond injects him with morphine on the floor of a laundromat on the edge of Merna, Nebraska, far enough to escape the zombies, not so far that the Tahoe risks running out of gas before you reach the next town. His left leg is burned from the knee down, and burned badly: skin, fat, muscle, blood-red scorched ruin. Even through the modest dose of morphine—Aemond is terrified of accidentally killing him—Aegon can still feel what has happened to him. He knows it’s bad. He knows it could be the last mistake he ever makes. “I’m so thirsty…”

“I got you, Honey Bun,” Rio says, and then uses the butt of his Remington to bust open the vending machines and bring him bottles of Powerade. Baela is sobbing in the corner with Luke and Rhaena. Helaena is shining a flashlight on Aegon’s leg so Aemond can see. Daeron and Cregan are keeping watch by the entrance. You don’t even know why. All the bullets and arrows are gone, Aegon can’t walk, the Tahoe’s gas tank is nearly drained. If you are descended upon now, what will you do?

Aegon sobs and clutches for you, links his arms around your waist, rests his head in your lap. You hold him and comb your fingers through his unruly hair over and over again, like a compulsion, like a ritual. You are so afraid to let go of him. You are terrified he’ll disappear.

I wish I knew what to say. I never know what to say.

He’s shaking uncontrollably as Aemond cleans his leg: peeling away dead skin, wiping down the raw flesh with disinfectant. Aegon’s eyes are wide and glassy. There is blood on the white tile floor, pinkish lymph fluid, bits of charred skin. Ice is whimpering, her muzzle propped on her paws and her eyes darting around the room. Aegon manages through the pain, a reedy, gasping whisper: “Tell me about all those places you went when you were in the Navy.”

You can see it like the miles-deep blue of his eyes: the Indian Ocean, the jewel-tone equatorial sky. “On Diego Garcia, they have these birds called red-footed boobies—”

Aegon barks out a weak laugh. “They do not. You’re making that up.”

“No, really, I swear! They’re like seagulls, but they have blue on their face and bright red feet, hence the name. They’re extremely stupid, and one night a few of us were hanging out drinking Guinness and playing pool, and a booby flew in through an open window. We panicked, it panicked, and then it was flying in circles and couldn’t get out. We opened all the doors and windows, and the booby still just flew around banging into the walls. And of course the whole time it was shitting and bleeding and getting feathers everywhere, we knew it was going to take hours to clean up. After thirty minutes of chasing this idiot bird around, Rio snapped, took off his boot, and smacked the booby with it. He was trying to fling it out the window, like hitting a tennis ball with a racket, but he accidentally hit the bird too hard and murdered it. Its beak literally separated from its body and flew across the room. None of us could believe it, we didn’t even know that was possible. Rio felt so bad he started crying. We took the booby—and its beak, of course—out to the beach for a Viking funeral. We made it a little raft of coconut tree leaves, set it on fire with a lighter, and pushed it out into the waves.”

Aegon is cackling. “Bryan Osorio, terrorizer of the homicidal undead and boobies!”

“What else?” Baela says, and you look over at her, startled. The flashlight incandescence turns you all to ghosts, phantoms, half-shadows. At first you don’t know what she means. “What else did they have on Diego Garcia?”

“Oh, tell them about the coconut crabs,” Rio prompts you. He’s settled down beside Aegon and is resting one broad hand on his trembling shoulder.

“Coconut crabs?” Rhaena asks you, wiping tears from her cheeks with her delicate, small-boned fingers.

You are abruptly aware that you have an audience. You can feel yourself shrinking beneath their gazes. “Rio should tell the story. I’m not good at it.”

“Sure you are,” Rio says, smiling kindly beneath dark, wet eyes. “Go on. Tell them.”

So you do.

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