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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 9: Some Days He Feels Like Dying]

A/N: Below are your guesses...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.

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

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Extraordinary Girl” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.3k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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

Let’s go back to the beginning of the end of the world.

On the big-screen tv in the Liberty Center at Saratoga Springs, Wolf Blitzer is saying: “We are receiving confirmation of additional outbreaks of the so-called Florida Fever, the first cases of which here in the U.S. were reported in Miami a little over one week ago. Concern is now growing nationally, especially as the modes of transmission, symptoms, and treatment options remain unclear. Let’s go across the country to Natasha Chen for the latest information. Natasha?”

“Hi, Wolf. I’m here outside the UC San Diego Medical Center where early this morning, two individuals suspected to be suffering from the illness were admitted. I’ve been informed by hospital staff that both patients are currently in stable condition, but there is still so much confusion and conflicting information regarding this ‘Florida Fever,’ and of course that uncertainty is leading to fear, rumors, and honestly a bit of hysteria. Even how to refer to the sickness is controversial, with no official name having been decided upon by scientists. Cases in Australia are known as Ragepox, the U.K. has dubbed it the 21st Century Sweat after a mysterious disease from the 1500s, and Russia is calling it the Ukrainian Flu while Ukraine has opted for the Russian Red Rot, inspired by the skin lesions that some patients experience.”

“Can you tell us what we do know, Natasha? Are doctors classifying this illness as a virus, or as a bacterial infection more akin to tuberculosis or meningitis?”

“At this time, what I’m hearing is that doctors are fairly certain it’s a virus, as patients do not seem to respond to antibiotics when they’ve been explored as a potential treatment. But there’s truly very little information at this early stage, and I think we’re all being reminded of those first days of the Covid-19 pandemic, when no one really knew how to best to avoid contracting the virus or what the long-term effects would be both nationally and globally.”

“There are absolutely some similarities, Natasha, which I’m sure is contributing to the unease surrounding the situation. What precautions are doctors currently recommending?”

“Wolf, doctors are urging the public not to panic, and to exercise common sense measures like avoiding crowded spaces, sanitizing surfaces, and staying home if they’re feeling unwell. Suspected cases of the illness should be reported to primary physicians or local hospitals. Typical symptoms appear to include headaches, fever, gastrointestinal upset, skin discoloration and blistering, and unusual bleeding, as well as behavioral changes, particularly disorientation, aggression, and even violence in some patients…”

“That ain’t what it is,” Rio says. He jabs his index finger at the tv from where he sits on the couch beside you. “Snowflake wasn’t sick, he was dead. He was motherfucking dead, flatline, code blue, crossed the rainbow bridge, he was gone. He was dead and then he woke back up, and he wasn’t a person anymore. He was…something else.”

“Dumbass, people don’t come back from the dead,” Mike says from the ping pong table. People are milling around pretending to play pool, darts, chess, poker, Monopoly, Uno, Parcheesi, but really you’re all here for the same reason. You want to know what’s happening.

Rio turns to you. “Wasn’t Snowflake dead?”

“He definitely seemed dead,” you reply, knees tucked to your chest and still watching the tv. Wolf Blitzer’s voice is calm, but his pale blue eyes have a manic sort of light to them, too large and too rattled.

“Man, fuck Florida,” says Desmond, a utilitiesman born and raised Trenton, New Jersey. “Nothing but psychos and alligators. Saw them off of Georgia and just let them float away.”

“What was that?” Tyler replies combatively. He’s from a trailer park in Tallahassee.

“Ty, why do you care? You’d be fine. You’re already up here. You can stay.”

“They’re lying,” Rio mutters, meaning Wolf and Natasha on CNN. “When the corpsmen called the hospital, they said to be prepared to restrain Snowflake and that he might try to bite us. Why aren’t they warning people about that?!”

Kayleigh, a steelworker from Oklahoma City, looses a frenetic sort of laugh. “Because there’s no non-panic-inducing way to say: Hey, go buy some duct tape and bungee cords to tie up your loved ones, because they might try to fucking eat you.”

Rio doesn’t frown often, but he is now; he slips his phone out of the pocket of his camo pants and types out a WhatsApp message to Sophie. You only know her from photos and quick hellos via video chat, a sweet diminutive woman with white-blonde hair and blue eyes that seem to fill up half her face, as fragile as Rio is overwhelming. She likes baking and romance novels and elephants; whenever Rio finds elephant-themed souveners, he ships them home to Oregon for her, refrigerator magnets and wallets and scarves and snow globes. Sophie wears a lot of long flowing skirts and hand-knit sweaters, and offers strange suggestions when she and Rio discuss baby names: Sage, Fox, Laurel, Coral, Juniper, Karma, Rune, Otter. Otter?! Rio had exclaimed. Babe, if you name our kid Otter, even I’M gonna have to bully them.

“I’m telling Sophie to stay with my parents,” Rio says to you. “They’ve gotten super weird with all the off-the-grid stuff, but they have years’ worth of supplies and grow most of their own food now, and they’re thirty miles from the nearest town. And no one knows how to defend themselves like doomsday preppers.”

“Good idea,” you reply, watching the tv. Now Wolf Blitzer is talking about tornadoes in the Midwest, and you could almost believe the world is normal again.

A few days later all major social media platforms begin censoring content related to the so-called Florida Fever, and then the internet goes down completely, and then the power turns off and on and off again, and finally quits like a car driven to its last mile. The combat units are moved out of Saratoga Springs—never to be heard from again—and the construction projects paused indefinitely, and one of the master-at-arms that Rio is friends with (Rio has a lot of friends, surely you aren’t so remarkable) relays information that he shouldn’t: tales of planned missions, impossible plagues, overrun cities, innumerable deserters in every branch of the U.S. military.

“Hey,” Rio whispers, shaking you awake one night, moonlight streaming through the windows and the pops of distant gunfire you aren’t supposed to ask about. “If I leave, will you come with me?”

It’s a big commitment; it could be a lifetime. You fear he might just be trying not to hurt your feelings. “I don’t want to slow you down.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Rio says. “I’m not leaving without you. Are you going to Oregon by choice, or should I tie you up and throw you in the back of the Humvee?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a young one, maybe a teenager, little buds for horns and only weighing a few hundred pounds. This is good; if it was any heavier, Cregan and Rio wouldn’t be able to drag it back to the ranch. You’re still in Red Desert, Wyoming, and the bison are grazing just off I-80, an asphalt artery that cuts through an endless steppe of sand-colored rocks and tall grass. They gaze lazily in your direction with bulbous dark eyes, perpetually chewing, not terribly intelligent. The Colt pistols of the men who found you at the RV had been loaded with 9mm bullets, the same caliber your Berettas take; there weren’t many, but enough to fill both of your clips, something that feels like winning the lottery. You are lying on the rocky, dusty soil and lining up the shot. If you miss, the herd will scatter, and you��ll watch dinner vanish beneath a blue sky—pale like Aemond’s eye, a weak shallow blue—and rough white scars of cirrostratus clouds.

“Feels kind of wrong to kill a baby,” you murmur. Daeron, Luke, Baela, Helaena, and Ice are back at the house. Aemond, Rio, Cregan, Rhaena, and Aegon are here on the ground with you; Aegon insisted upon being brought along, and Rio agreed to carry him. Aegon had never seen American bison outside of the Oregon Trail computer game, those pixelated brown blobs migrating across the screen no more material than unicorns or faeries or basilisks.

“If the baby didn’t want to get killed, it shouldn’t be made of steak,” Aegon points out. He’s on a lot of Vicodin, the only narcotic Aemond could find back in Ogallala, Nebraska.

“No pressure, Chips,” Rio says, chewing on a long blade of little bluestem grass. “If you miss we’re just going to have to eat each other like the Donner Party.”

Aegon wrinkles his nose in confusion. “The what?”

“She won’t miss,” Aemond says, and Rio snickers to himself and gives you a quick wink that no one else notices.

“I don’t think one 9mm bullet will do it,” Cregan mutters. “Cows got thick skulls, I figure bison are the same way. You’ll have to hit it a few times, and before it can take off and disappear on us.”

Aemond casts him a patronizing glance. “And you’ve killed a lot of cows?”

“Oh yeah. Worked in a slaughterhouse for a while before I got hired by the power company. Hated it, went home and could still smell the blood and brains on myself no matter how many times I showered. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Aemond looks like he regrets asking. Rhaena frowns worriedly at the bison. “Will they charge if someone shoots at them?”

Cregan shrugs. “Probably not.”

“Probably?!”

You squeeze the trigger five times in quick succession, hit the calf thrice, tiny puffs of scarlet mist that spring from its woolly head. It flops over as the rest of the herd jolts into a gallop, kicking up dust and fleeing across the steppe.

“Yes!” Rio booms as everyone applauds. “We’re in business! We’re having ribeyes tonight! Cregan, my good sir, I take mine medium rare.”

“You’re getting well done,” Aemond tells him. “Everyone is. Just in case the bison has parasites.”

Rio groans. “You’re ruining my life, man.” Then he and Cregan trot over to grab the baby bison, each of them taking one of its back hooves.

“So,” Aegon says dreamily. “Now that Rio is preoccupied, who would like to assist me in returning my disgusting, debilitated body to the ranch? Anyone? Anyone?”

Rhaena turns to you. “When we have more bullets, could you give me shooting lessons?”

“Sure,” you reply, a bit startled. “Really? You’re interested?”

“Well…” Rhaena hesitates. “Baela’s always been the brave one. At home, at school, when we were shopping, even when restaurants would mess up my order, Baela would do the talking and make sure I was alright…and I would literally hide behind her waiting for her to solve all my problems. And now…with the baby, with Jace…it’s been really different being the one to help her for a change, and I don’t think I’m very good at it yet. But Baela deserves to have people to lean on, just like I’ve always had her. And…when I stabbed that guy in the RV…I kind of liked it.” She titters nervously when she sees the shock on your face. “No, not like that! Not the killing part, or the gushing blood, that was all super gross. But the fact that I helped protect Baela and Luke? The fact that I wasn’t useless in that situation? That was a good feeling. Baela is clever, and she’s courageous and caring and funny, and she’s always been better than me at everything, and I never minded because she…she was like my own personal superhero, you know? But now I feel like I need to start learning how to do things myself so I can help her. Even if Baela is still better at everything, and probably always will be.”

Aegon grins toothily and pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know how you feel. It’s pretty impossible to look heroic next to Aemond.”

“Stop,” Aemond says, but he’s smiling, and a bloom of bashful pink blood appears in his cheeks.

“You already took over the driving,” you tell Rhaena encouragingly. “That was a big help.”

“Yeah,” Rhaena replies, a bit pensive. “Let’s hope I can keep that going.” Between the gas Aemond found in Ogallala and what was siphoned from the would-be attackers’ GMC Yukon, you got enough fuel in the Tahoe to take it halfway across Wyoming; but now the gauge is not just at but venturing below the E, and it can’t have more than five or ten miles left. That might not even get you to the next ranch, let alone a proper town. You need a working vehicle. There are nearly a thousand miles between here and Odessa, Oregon.

Aegon is pawing at Aemond like a cat. “Come on, hero. Help me up.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is why we’re friends,” Rio tells you as he shovels forkfuls of bison steak into his mouth, juice dribbling down his chin. Cregan gutted the bison and butchered it, then you helped him cook the steaks—not very uniform in size and shape, yet no one is complaining—on a pan heated in the woodstove. You fed the fire with books you found in the house, mostly religious in nature. “You convince me not to commit suicide when we’re stranded on a transmission tower, you share your Cheddar Whales, you’re good at shooting things…”

“How did you two become friends?” Baela asks. You are all arranged around the dining room table; there are just enough chairs for everyone. Ice lies beneath it mauling on bison bones that Cregan set aside for her. The room is illuminated by flashlights. Baela looks great: in good spirits, glowing, alert, wearing a loose cotton dress that Helaena found in an upstairs closet for her. Baela napped most of the day, something she rarely allows herself to indulge in, and the benefits are evident.

Rio says nonchalantly: “I talked to everybody and she barely talked at all. So of course I had to investigate and figure out what that was about. Turns out she’s kind of cool. You know the Wheel of Fortune game at arcades where there’s like a hundred little lights in a circle you have to press the button when the one that says Spin Zone lights up? She’s a freak, she can hit it almost every time. Can’t sink a basketball or sing karaoke to save her life, but you know, we all have flaws.”

Aegon looks up from his map, which he is scrutinizing as he eats his bison steak. “Do you realize that if we could just stop at gas stations like back when everything was normal, we’d be in Odessa or the Bay Area in fifteen hours? Literally less than one day. Fucking unreal. And yet here we are trapped in yee-haw country, freaky giant animals, no civilization but Jesus billboards everywhere, hell on earth.” He holds up a palm. “No offense, Cregan. You’re okay.”

Cregan smiles mildly. “None taken, Fried Foot. You know you’re a little well done yourself these days.”

“That’s ableist,” Aegon replies.

“We’ll find gas tomorrow,” Aemond says. He sounds confident because he has to; he’s not allowed to panic, to give up. He’s seated at the head of the table like a patriarch. His steak is the smallest and the most ragged. He wouldn’t accept any of the others.

You ask Baela: “Have you decided what to name the baby?”

“Kind of.” She rests both hands on her belly, a globe like a full moon. Helaena glances over at Baela, frowning and preoccupied. “If it’s a boy, I’m going to name it after Jace. We had already picked out Theodore…and Teddy for short, isn’t that cute? But now…I’d want him to have that connection to his father. The baby won’t have any pictures of him, or videos, or memories, or papers he wrote in school, or ties or rings or cufflinks, or…anything. But he could have Jace’s name.”

The rest of you nod, eyes downcast and feeling terribly sorry for her. “I really like that idea,” Luke says quietly.

Now Baela is thinking, her gaze traveling around the room as she chews on a cube of streak. “I’m not sure what I’d call a girl. Maybe something naturey like Violet, Rosemary, Ivy, Indigo, Fern…”

“You should name it Otter,” you say, and you and Rio erupt into raucous laughter. Aemond smiles as he watches you.

Baela is grinning uncertainly, trying not to be insensitive. Perhaps people named their kids stuff like Otter where you came from. “Um, sorry, what?!”

“That was one of the baby names on Sophie’s list,” Rio clarifies. “I vetoed it. Or at least…I think she agreed to cross it off…? Oh my God, imagine I finally get to Odessa only to find out my firstborn child has been named Otter.”

“You’d have to turn right back around,” you say. “Total abandonment would be the only honorable choice. We’d have to start over someplace else. I’ve heard Texas is nice.”

Aegon snorts. “You can’t live in Texas. They don’t even have legal weed there.”

Rhaena squints at him. “I don’t really think that’s a concern anymore, Aegon.”

Aegon smacks his forehead theatrically. “Oh no, I forgot about the apocalypse again!”

“So Cregan,” Baela says. “You were planning to vote for Trump.”

Everyone at the table groans. “No politics,” Aemond says.

“They’re all dead now, so it doesn’t matter,” Rhaena adds. “Biden, Kamala, that insane Kennedy brain worm dude, Trump…”

Aegon says: “If I was a zombie, I wouldn’t eat Trump.”

“I just found that interesting,” Baela continues, looking at Cregan like she’s expecting him to explain himself. Rhaena and Luke exchange a nervous glance. Daeron reaches under the table to pet Ice; you can hear her tail thumping cheerfully against the hardwood floor.

“I was a Trump voter, yeah,” Cregan replies between bites of steak. Aemond is studying him uneasily, but Cregan’s baritone voice is calm. “That doesn’t mean I approved of a lot of the things he did and said. I’m not a monster, I don’t believe in mocking people or all that January 6th stuff. But he was good for the economy. Back when Trump was president, groceries were more affordable, and houses were cheaper, and more companies were hiring. If I had tried to move out of my parents’ place in 2023 instead of 2019, there’s no way I could have done it. And I really needed to get out of there. A lot of people feel that they don’t have the luxury of voting for the nicest candidate, or the candidate they agree with on social issues. Something abstract like climate change isn’t even on the radar. They have to vote for their basic necessities.”

You and Rio understand what he means, you’ve both met plenty of people with the same perspective; everybody else seems shellshocked.

“But I don’t want y’all to think that I’m…” Cregan looks around the table, his eyes catching—interestingly—on Helaena, who observes him with a fully present attentiveness that you’ve learned is rare for her. “You know, like a sexist or a racist or that I hate foreigners or anything. Because I’ve never felt that way, and now I’m very happy to have found you guys, and I respect the hell out of you. And I want to be allowed to stay.”

“You can stay, Cregan,” Helaena reassures him.

“Yeah,” Rio says. “Especially since we’d probably starve without you.”

Cregan beams, clearly grateful, and there are chuckles and the tension breaks; and Baela is placidly skating her palm over the arc of her belly, and now that you’ve eaten all you can, Rio is spearing the remaining chunks of your steak with his fork and gobbling them down. He doesn’t ask before he does this; he knows you don’t mind. You’ve never understood why he’s given you so much over the past nearly five years. You are eternally offering him atonement.

Suddenly, Baela asks you: “What would you name a baby girl?”

You have to think about this before you answer. “Well, if you’re looking for something related to plants…I had a friend when I was growing up named Briar, and I always thought that was pretty.”

“Briar,” Baela echoes, intrigued.

“It means bramble, like a thorny shrub where blackberries grow. I remember her telling me that her mama wanted it to be a reminder that people go through rough patches and that life gets hard sometimes, but you have to keep going, and eventually you’ll find your way out.”

“Briar,” Baela repeats. “Yeah, that’s kind of neat. I’ll add it to the list!”

“And you’d have the same first initial,” Rhaena says. “Baela and Briar. Isn’t that adorable?”

Baela smiles. “And a few Rs thrown in there too. For Rhaena.”

Rio turns to Aegon. “Hey Honey Bun, if you had to name your kid after a plant, what would you name it?”

Aegon says without hesitation: “Marijuana.”

Now it’s an hour later, and Aemond is examining Aegon’s burned leg on the living room floor, Helaena holding a flashlight and you and Rio standing by for moral support. Underneath the bandages is a wasteland of red, weeping flesh…and yet there are spots where the skin seems to be hardening into white islands of scar tissue. Rhaena and Luke are keeping watch by the windows, Baela is passed out in one of the bedrooms, Cregan is showing Daeron how to put his wavy blonde hair up in a man bun.

Aemond points to a blackish patch on the top of Aegon’s foot, only a few inches from his ankle. “I have to debride this part here,” he says like an apology.

Aegon is afraid to ask. “What does debride mean?”

“It means I have to cut it out.”

“Cut it?!”

“It’s getting infected. I have to remove it or it will spread to the rest of the foot and you could get sepsis. I might even have to amputate the whole leg.”

“Okay, cut the dead stuff off,” Aegon swiftly agrees.

Aemond doesn’t have any more injectable morphine. He gives Aegon as much Vicodin as he dares and then begins working, carving away layers of dark disease with his scalpel and scrubbing the area with disinfectant. Aegon clutches your hand, squeezing so hard it feels like your bones might crunch, shrapnel-like splinters of marrow-stained organic glass beneath your skin. Rio has Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman—once owned by Ava—and takes one earbud while giving Aegon the other. They sing along to Sean Paul songs together, laughing as tears stream down Aegon’s sunburned cheeks:

“Well, woman, the way the time cold, I wanna be keepin’ you warm

I got the right temperature fi shelter you from the storm

Oh Lord, gal, I got the right tactics to turn you on

And girl, I wanna be the papa, you can be the mom…”

Now you’re curled up in bed, your arms crossed over your belly as you struggle to fall asleep. Aemond comes to bed late now; each night he waits until Baela is sleeping and then teaches Rhaena about childbirth and recovery: what to expect, what could go wrong. She is a good student, borrowing Helaena’s spider notebook to take notes and asking detailed questions. She wants to know everything she can so she can help when Baela goes into labor.

At last, the bedroom door opens. Out in the living room you can hear Rio asking: “Do you have Wagon Wheel? I love that song.”

Aegon scoffs. “No, of course I don’t have Wagon Wheel. Shut up and listen to your Enrique Iglesias.”

“You are so racist, man…”

Aemond sees that you’re in agony, rummages around in his medical kit, and gives you an oval-shaped white pill to wash down with the can of orange Sunkist on the nightstand; Helaena found a case of it in the pantry. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“I didn’t want to take any Vicodin from Aegon or Baela. They’ll need it more than me.”

“Your pain is as real as anyone else’s.” Aemond’s weight shifts the mattress as he crawls into bed beside you, his arm settling protectively around your waist, his hand covering yours where it rests on your lower belly. “If the Tahoe runs out of gas, will you be okay to walk tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about me. I had three periods during basic training, I honestly thought I might die. After that I can power through just about anything.”

“I’ve noticed.” You feel the soft smile on Aemond’s lips as he kisses your temple. “Do you want quiet, or do you want to talk?”

“Talking would be a nice distraction.”

Aemond wastes no time. “Do you like kids?”

“Well, since birth control doesn’t exist anymore, I’d hope everybody does.”

Again, he is smiling; you can hear it in his voice. “Okay, but do you intend to have your own?”

“Yeah, I always envisioned myself having kids. I wanted a normal family and figured I’d have to make one myself, DIY it, you know? I don’t think the plan has changed. Gotta repopulate the earth somehow.”

“I wouldn’t try to sway your decision one way or the other. It’s a burden you should only have to endure if you actively choose it. But if you want to have children one day, I’d help you.”

You giggle in the dim orange glow of a single flashlight. “How self-sacrificial.”

“No,” Aemond says, laughing. “Not like, the making them. I mean, I’d help with that too, that aspect would be fun. But I was talking about the delivery, and recovery, and taking care of a newborn. I don’t know everything, but I know a lot. I could help you get through it. So that’s an option I want you to be aware of, if…you know.” Now he pauses. “If you trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you should,” Aemond murmurs; or at least that’s what you think he says as you lose consciousness, plummeting into sleep as if falling from a great height.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe runs out of gas just east of Tipton—not a city, not a town, just a collection of service roads linking sprawling ranches to I-80, the only continuous route across southern Wyoming—and Rhaena guides the SUV as it coasts to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. You hike about a mile to the nearest ranch house: Luke carrying the siphoning hose and empty gas can in case you can find fuel, Rio carrying Aegon on his back, Baela walking slowly and with great effort, Ice panting as she lopes across the dusty earth. You can’t spot any cattle or horses behind the endless strings of barbed wire fencing. Perhaps they are in a different pasture, or escaped or were stolen, or died of thirst without being tended to, or were consumed by a wandering hoard of zombies, never sleeping and always hungry. The house at the end of the dirt driveway is modest, old, and painted white. The front door is open; the screen door bangs in the wind.

“Rock Springs is the next real town,” Aegon says when Rio drops him to the ground, reading his map.

“And how far is that?” Rio asks.

Aegon deflates. “About fifty miles.”

“Great,” Rhaena says. “What’s the plan, to fly there?”

“Yeah, start flapping your wings, little bird. You’re light enough, you can make it.”

“No car in the driveway,” you tell Aemond. “Nobody home, maybe?”

He’s scrutinizing the house, his blue eye narrow. “Maybe.”

A thought occurs to Aegon. “Do you think ranchers have golf clubs?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” Aemond snaps. Rio is now on the front porch and pounding the butt of his unloaded Remington shotgun against the doorframe to see if anyone appears. Daeron is nocking one of his makeshift arrows as he trots around the perimeter with his compound bow.

Luke, peering through his binoculars, points to a large cylindrical aluminum structure about a hundred yards from the house, by a small red barn. “What’s that thing?”

“It’s a grain bin,” Cregan says. “Full of feed for cattle.” Ice whimpers at his feet, and he twirls his axe in his large, calloused hands. “Are we clearing the house or not? Something’s in there.”

“We are,” Aemond answers tonelessly. “Luke, Rhaena, stay out here with Aegon and watch for trouble. Daeron, you too.”

“Got it.”

“Baela—”

“Can I go inside?” she asks. “Please, Aemond. I’m so sick of sitting around feeling useless and exhausted. I want to help. I want to do something, I’m going insane.”

“Fine,” Aemond agrees. “It should be an easy one.”

It is easy, but it’s not pleasant. The house smells like dark, sickening decay. In the living room are the skeletal remains of two bodies, both children judging by the size; the maroon-stained bones are notched with indents from gnashing teeth. Cregan shadows Helaena as she searches through closets and drawers. She takes no clothing—it would have absorbed the stench of death—but fills her burlap messenger bag with matches, lighters, batteries, pills. She gives you a bottle of Advil before you can ask her for it.

“Thanks,” you say, a bit startled, as you tuck it away in your backpack.

It is not until Ice leads you to the final room, the bedroom at the rear of the house, that you hear the familiar, blood-chilling hissing and moaning of a zombie. It is in the closet, and emerges one limb at a time: one arm and then another, one leg long like a spider’s, streaked with a thick soup of rotting organs that spills from a gaping hole in her belly like the mouth of a mineshaft. Something has happened to its other leg; it is missing, and the corpse that was once a thirties-something woman—a soccer mom, perhaps, with a minivan and propensity to make meatloaf and fish sticks—drags itself across the fawn-colored carpet towards you, slow and pathetic. Ice growls and barks. Rio raises his Remington.

“Wait,” Baela says. Her hammer is in her right hand. “Can I do it?”

“Of course, be my guest,” Rio says; though you can tell he’s slightly disappointed. He loves clubbing things.

Baela approaches the yowling zombie—jaws snapping, claws swiping—and grimaces down at it, this one of millions of monsters that ended the world, that killed Jace and stole all the rest of her life from her too, all those normal things she was supposed to have, all those strings of fate that the plague cut through like a razor and sent floating aimlessly out into the void of the universe. Then with a scream, Baela swings her hammer and a catastrophic impact crater appears in the side of the zombie’s skull, and it crumples to the floor, its mindless brains spilling out onto the carpet.

“Nothing good?” Aegon asks when you reappear in the driveway, popping a Vicodin into his mouth.

“No,” Aemond replies grimly. “No gas, no bullets, no food, nothing to drink.”

“I knew it would be lean pickings once we got out here,” Cregan says, and Aemond looks like he could kill him.

“Well, fortunately, Luke might have some good news for us,” Aegon says with a grin.

Aemond perks up. “Really? What?”

“I saw a truck out there,” Luke says, using his binoculars to gesture to the grain bin. “It’s parked between the barn and the grain thing, I can just see the very front of it sticking out. And if there’s a truck, there might be gas.”

Aemond ruffles Luke’s fluffy dark hair. “Good job, kid.” And Luke lights up like how cities used to look at night, back when the power was on: Washington D.C., Key West, Corpus Christi, Chinhae. Rio stoops down so Aegon can hop on his back, and all of you trek together across the field.

“Nothing,” Cregan announces as he squeezes the little pump on the siphoning hose after opening the gas cap of the ancient Chevy Silverado and threading the hose inside. “Not a drop.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Aegon sighs from where he’s slumped on the ground. His eyes are glazed; he’s pretty stoned. He gazes pitifully up at you; you pat his shoulder sympathetically. You and Rio have already checked the barn, dilapidated but perfectly devoid of zombies. The roof has caved in; one of the two front doors are missing. “What now?!”

“We can go back to the interstate and walk until we find the next ranch,” you say, looking absentmindedly at the grain bin. It’s much larger up close, and rusty in spots. A ladder runs up one side to allow access to the roof. Ice isn’t whining or nudging anyone’s hands, but she’s sniffing the air as if she’s detected something interesting, unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” Luke replies miserably. “We can walk another five or ten miles and then maybe find a safe place to spend the night.”

Rhaena shades her eyes as she peers up at the sky. “It’s past noon already. Maybe we should just stay here.”

Rio barks out a sardonic laugh. “In a house with no supplies and that reeks of dead people?”

“Cregan, go kill us something to eat,” Aegon commands.

He chuckles in his deep, gruff voice. “It’s Miss Chips who is good at the killing, I’m just the authority on butchering at the moment.”

Aemond is watching Ice, his forehead furrowed. “What’s she doing?”

Cregan whistles. “Hey, princess, you okay?” Ice ignores him, still sniffing, her grey ears straight up in the air. Then it appears from behind the barn: a tiny brown creature, a baby bear.

“Aww, it’s so fuzzy!” Aegon squeals, stretching his arm out to pet it. Rio yanks him away; everyone else is backing up towards the grain bin. A second bear cub has now arrived, padding clumsily along, large cartoonish eyes and a little pink tongue poking out from its muzzle.

“Don’t touch them!” Aemond shouts to everyone. “Get away from them! If there are cubs, there’s probably—”

And around the barn comes the mother, a grizzly bear of 400 pounds. She bares her teeth and snarls, saliva dripping in long gluey strings. Ice is barking viciously; Aegon is shrieking and scrambling onto Rio’s back.

“Baela!” Aemond says because she’s closest to him, urging her towards the ladder of the grain bin. She gets the idea and begins climbing. Then Aemond reaches for you. “Come on, you next!”

“Rhaena, go,” you say instead, and she clambers up the ladder after Baela. Cregan is brandishing his axe; Rio has his Remington in his hands, Aegon still clinging to his back like a baby opossum to its mother. Now Helaena is climbing up the ladder, and Daeron nocks an arrow. You whip one of your M9s out of its holster, aim for the bear’s head, and pull the trigger.

Your bullet hits its skull, Daeron’s arrow pierces its chest; and the mother bear does not die but roars and rises up onto her back feet—taller than Rio, taller than Cregan—and then drops back down and charges towards you and the grain bin. Cregan blocks the way, swinging his axe. The bear reluctantly pauses, testing him with swipes of her claws that he evades. Rio is just a few steps behind Cregan, waving his Remington around hostilely. Aegon is screaming and holding on for dear life.

“Don’t shoot!” Cregan yells. “9mm isn’t big enough, you’ll just make her more angry!”

Aemond finally gets a grip on your wrist and drags you to the ladder. You obey and climb until your feet are several rungs off the ground, then you turn to see what’s going on below. Aemond, Luke, and Daeron are at the bottom of the ladder, their backs to you. Cregan is still wielding his axe.

“Fuck off, Mama Bear!” he bellows, standing as tall as possible and swinging his axe above his head. Rio follows Cregan’s lead and holds his Remington aloft. Ice is barking; the baby bears are fleeing in terror. Aegon is sobbing hysterically and saying he’s going to die. “You don’t want us and we don’t want you! Go on! Go get your babies! I’ll put this blade right between your eyes if you don’t change your stupid mind right quick!”

The bear pounds the earth with her front feet and growls, a beastly subterranean rumble, but she seems to be losing her nerve. The rungs of the ladder creak and groan; you see rust like blood-hued moss around the bolts.

“Get out of here!” Cregan shouts. “Go, you hairy old bitch! Go back to your babies!”

The bear glances back to see her cubs vanish behind the barn. Her mouth is open and panting, spittle gleaming on her pointed teeth; her black eyes are uncertain. As you hold onto the ladder with one hand, you have your M9 aimed at the bear’s left eye, just in case. Aemond is watching Cregan; on his scarred face a sharp severity, fascination and resentment and fear.

“Go on,” Cregan says firmly. “Leave us alone. You belong in the mountains, not down here. Go eat something that’s already dead, a nice easy dinner. You don’t want us. We’ll fight you.”

The grizzly bear shakes her head—flopping ears, shaggy fur filthy with dust and pieces of grass—and whirls, lumbering off to find her cubs. When she rounds the barn, Cregan waits a few long, tense, silent minutes and then turns to the grain bin.

“Alright y’all, we oughta hurry up and leave. I don’t think she’ll come back, but she might.”

From the top of the ladder, approximately forty feet off the ground, Baela begins to laugh. “Did that really just happen?! That was insane! Cregan, buddy, you can vote for whoever you want to. You and I are cool forever.”

He smiles up at her, wincing in the bright afternoon light. “I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am.”

Rio sets Aegon down on the ground and stretches his back; it must be hurting him. Aemond is taking your hand and helping you off the ladder, and you are reminded of the transmission tower where he found you in Catawissa, Pennsylvania, one of those middle-of-nowhere places like Tipton, Wyoming. As Helaena climbs down, you go to Rio and—with as much force as you can manage—knead the small of his back with the heel of your hand like you know helps him.

“You okay?”

He sighs loudly, relieved. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Oh, wow, that’s good. Harder…oh yeah…”

There is a snapping sound, metal squealing as it breaks, and by the time you turn to look she’s already falling: her cotton dress billowing around her, her arms wheeling helplessly. It happens too quickly for her to scream—for her to understand what is going on and what it means—but there is a stunned gasp and then she hits the ground, and you hear a muffled crunch of bone—skull?? spine??—and she is completely, unnaturally still as she lies on her back, no pain, no words, nothing.

“Baela!” Rhaena shrieks, and she rushes down the ladder and runs to her sister. You are all gathering around Baela, petrified to move her—to make it worse—but pleading for her to wake up, examining her with terrified eyes. Baela’s own eyes, dark and glassy and serene, are open only a sliver like obsidian crescent moons. Aemond is asking Helaena for a flashlight and then prying them wide, checking Baela’s pupils.

“There’s no reflex,” he says numbly.

“What does that mean?!” Rhaena cries. “Aemond? Aemond?!”

“She’s…she’s…” He’s in denial; he’s in shock. He’s feeling for a pulse on her carotid, he’s digging his fingernails into her forearm to try to get her to respond to pain.

“Aemond?” you say softly.

“She’s gone,” he tells you, like he doesn’t believe it, like he’s waiting to wake up.

“The baby,” Rhaena says. “Try to save the baby.” And then, when Aemond doesn’t immediately understand, she grabs his backpack and begins ripping it off so he can get the medical kit inside. “The baby, Aemond!”

Now he knows what he has to do. He pulls the scalpel out of his kit as Rhaena moves Baela’s sundress to expose her belly. She was wearing biker shorts beneath, lavender, cute, something you might have picked out in a store. In less than a minute they will be soaked with blood. Cregan leads Daeron away, and he’s telling him that they need to keep watch in case the grizzly bear returns, but you think it is an act of mercy more than anything else. Ice goes with them. Helaena, her face pale and grave, is shining the flashlight on Baela’s belly, just beneath her navel.

“Aegon?” Aemond says.

“What? What do you need?”

“I need people to help hold open the incision once I make it. I have to be able to see the amniotic sac so I can cut the membrane without harming the baby.”

“I get it, I’m here, I’ll help.”

Aemond presses the blade of the scalpel to Baela’s skin and draws a semicircle from the top of one hip to the other. There is blood, but it is slow-moving and thick and dark; it is the blood of a dead woman, not a living one. Immediately, Aegon hooks his fingers under layers of fat, skin, and muscle, and opens the wound as much as he can. You and Rio reach in too, and you do this without thinking, without allowing yourself to feel the horror of it until the work is done.

“I can’t see,” Aemond is murmuring. Rhaena gets another flashlight and helps Helaena illuminate the area. Luke is on his knees with both hands clamped over his mouth, his eyes glistening with dread and disbelief. Aemond is slicing, pausing to probe around with his fingers, cutting again. Then his arm plunges into Baela’s abdomen up to his elbow and, with some difficulty, pulls out the gore-covered baby by its feet, a girl, large and limp and silent.

Rhaena sobs, equal parts grief and joy, a smile appearing on her face. “Is she okay? Aemond? Is she…why isn’t she crying? Aemond?!”

Rio yanks off his shirt and uses it to wipe blood and gelatinous clumps away from the baby’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils. Then Aemond takes the shirt and wraps the baby in it, warming her, rubbing her lifeless little limbs. When she does not stir, Aemond lays her on the earth and begins CPR: compressions with two fingers on her tiny heart, two breaths down the airway she’s never used. There are no sounds except his efforts. There is no crying when the baby wakes, because she never does.

Enough, you are thinking, as if from very far away: an island in the Indian Ocean, the Appalachian mountains in eastern Kentucky. Enough, enough, enough.

Aemond stops trying to revive the baby. He picks her up and holds her against him, and no one says anything. There is only the barrenness of the Wyoming steppe, an anemic blue sky, tall dry grass that bows in the breeze, black vultures that are landing atop the barn and the grain bin.

Aegon jolts out of his paralysis and reaches for his brother with bloodied hands. “Aemond, hey, Aemond, listen to me, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? Are you listening? Aemond, man, you did everything you could. You gave them a chance. You didn’t give up.”

But Aemond doesn’t respond; he only kneels there beside Baela’s butchered body, her dead baby girl in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Alys?” he calls, seeing that she never came back to bed. He is lying on his stomach, tangled in red sheets damp with sweat. It’s hot, too hot, and there is no humming of the air conditioning. When Aemond picks up his iPhone from the nightstand, it’s still plugged in but only at 87% battery. The power must have gone out.

He gets up, rubs the damp skin by his temple—headache, dehydration—and lifts open the nearest window. It’s odd: there is shouting, distant and indistinct, like the sound of a carnival or a concert. There are car alarms too, and sirens, and horns blaring, all too far away for him to see. It must be because of the power outage, traffic signals thrown into chaos, neighbors relaying the latest information back and forth. That’s the only logical explanation.

“Alys?” Aemond says again, groggy but with increasing curiosity, concern, guilt.

She started to feel sick last night, a pulsing in her skull and chills and powerful nausea. The possibility of it being the so-called Florida Fever barely registered in his mind. Alys gets migraines, and tofu is a migraine trigger, and he took her to a Thai restaurant (maybe he should have known better) and the curry Alys ordered ended up having tofu in it, and by the time she paid the check (as Alys always did) she was swallowing an Imitrex from the box in her snakeskin purse. She said she was going to lie down in the guest bedroom for a while so she wouldn’t wake him if she spent the next few hours dashing to and from the bathroom, a likely outcome, and if he was honest with himself about it, Aemond would admit he was relieved.

He shuffles to the bedroom door—black boxers, bare feet, century-old hardwood floors—and opens it. Now he can hear thudding, like someone tenderizing meat with a mallet. “Alys? Baby, you feeling okay?” There is no answer, only that rhythmic hammering. He realizes that it is coming from the guest bedroom, a door at the end of a long hallway still fuzzy through his half-awake eyes.

It had never felt right, but it had felt good: good in the body when she touched him, good in the soul when she told him he did something right. But lately—especially here, in the vast creaking historic house she shares with her husband and her children, who are presently sailing in Cape Cod—Aemond cannot shake the feeling that this entanglement is a surrender rather than an aspiration, something he fell into and now rests at the bottom of like a swimming pool or the sea, the cold weight of it threatening to pour into his lungs and drown him.

“Alys?” Aemond says, now with profound and inexplicable dread. Outside an ambulance or police car zooms by, sirens blaring. The pounding on the door of the guest bedroom grows faster.

I want to go home, Aemond thinks suddenly. At home, in the Federal-style townhouse his parents rented for him (Criston picked it out, a safe and quiet neighborhood in Beacon Hill, and Viserys paid), Daeron is visiting from California and watching golf tournaments with Aegon on the living room couch, pretending to be interested when Aegon describes the different types of clubs. Helaena, pursuing an Entomology PhD, is researching the Mediterranean mantis, clicking around on her MacBook Pro from the garden in the backyard. Jace and Luke live there too, and so Baela and Rhaena have all but officially moved in, keeping their apartment in Seaport only to have somewhere to retreat to when the Targaryen chaos becomes too much…and so the baby can have its own room. Baela bought a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, a dresser, and about a million unisex onesies, mostly space-themed. Baela is studying Aeronautics and Astronautics, after all. Maybe one day she’ll work for NASA and fly rockets to the moon.

The door is rattling on its hinges. Aemond’s hand closes around the knob. On the other side is something terrible, and he knows this. But he cannot just leave her. Aemond is not someone who abandons people; he is not someone who turns away from responsibilities.

He opens the door of the guest bedroom, and immediately she is staggering towards him, limp dripping hair and naked like she was interrupted mid-shower: blood bubbling from her gaping mouth and the whites of teeth peeking through the crimson, necrotic skin hanging in strips from her fingers, eyes misty like steam on a mirror.

“Alys, stop! Alys! What’s wrong with you?!”

She’s alive but she’s dead. She’s yowling and clawing at him, but her flesh is the rotting swampland of a corpse. He’s pushing her away; his palms sink into her, places he once noticed and then fantasized about and then at last—euphorically, ashamedly—touched, held, borrowed but never kept. She’s trying to bite him. She’s trying to kill him. None of this is possible, and yet it’s true.

Aemond flings her away, and the woman who was once Alys stumbles backwards and down the staircase, sick wet thumps all the way to the ground floor, bones splitting through dissolving grey skin, organs sloshing around until they spill out. He can hear her still hissing, flailing, trying to get up again.

Without thinking—slipping seamlessly into what he learned during his psych rotation is called automatic action—Aemond races down the steps and grabs her by the skull, cracks it against the antique hardwood floor she once extoled the value of as he fucked her on it: shipped east from Oregon and laid in 1912, the year the Titanic sank. When she lurches up to try to bite him, he slams her head against the floor again and again until she is still.

Then Aemond kneels there alone for a long time, sirens shrieking outside, far-off strangers screaming for help, putrid black blood clotting on his hands.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

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clericsandpaladins · 1 day ago

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I find Season Four to be quite interesting in that the Duffers have confirmed that originally it was meant to be the last season, but they had to split it for the sake of pacing. Season Four is less of it's own season and more of the set-up for Season Five and that tells us a lot about the plots in Season Four.

I've seen a lot of people argue about the purpose of the California and Russia plotlines considering that they are so disconnected from what we could call the main plot, which is Vecna. But the Duffers are NOT bad writers. They had an extra six months to work on and revisit their scripts. Everything in Season Four was very intentional, which is why I choose to give the California and Russia plotlines the benefit of the doubt. Do they seem pretty pointless? Yeah, right now they do. But when you think about it, we are only seeing half of the story here. Season Four and Five were meant to be ONE season. Hopper's prison break is only half of the story, we don't yet know the true purpose for reviving him and spending so much time getting him out. We needed to get Hopper away so that El could spend this season continuing her ongoing arc of self-discovery and independence. What we don't know is why we need Hopper back and that's the question I think will be answered in Season Five. You don't kill and revive characters for no reason because it takes away the stakes in your story. By doing that, you're making your audience less invested in the safety of these characters because they KNOW there are no consequences. So then why did the Duffers spend a quarter of Season Four getting Hopper back, despite it's irrelevance to the plot until the very end where they help to defeat Vecna? That's the question that Season Five will answer. The California group go on a big road trip trying to find El. Seemingly the only purpose for this is to be able to find El so she can get to the pizza freezer and help Max, making the rest of the stuff they do pretty irrelevant. Right? Wrong. Because, once again, this is set-up. We are only seeing half of the story the Duffers wanted to tell. So then what is actually happening in this plotline? Certainly nothing much with Jonathan. But what we do spend most of this plotline doing is showing the development of Mike and Will's relationship. They start off awkward, they argue, they have heart-to-hearts. The majority of this plotline is dedicated to showing us how Will and Mike interact and behave around each other. You know how it all ends? With a chekhov's gun in the form of Will's painting and his veiled love confession. If the Duffers are indeed good writers, then they have to address this is Season Five, once again showing us we are only seeing half of the story. Because of the chekhov's gun, we know that Will's feelings for Mike have to be addressed in Season Five. If they aren't, then what was the point of the painting in the first place? We didn't need it for Mike to confess his love to El. El dying should've been enough for Mike, but it wasn't. Will reminding Mike of what happened in the van is what lead to his love confession. The painting has a purpose, it just hasn't been addressed yet. Similarly, if this emotional arc with Mike and Will ends with no change in their relationship, then what was the point? There was no need for Will to be in love with Mike to show his queerness. They could've introduced a new love interest for Will like they did with Dustin and Robin. But they didn't. Will's inevitable confession to Mike needs to result in a change for the California plotline to have a purpose, otherwise the narrative wasted all that time building up to nothing. Not to mention the fact that Will is the key to tying up Mike's arc. Mike feels like he isn't needed by El and this is a major insecurity for him. He spends most of Season Four worrying about this and so in order for his ending to be satisfying, we need to resolve this insecurity and prove him wrong. Yet, Season Four ended with El realizing she had value as a person outside of her super powers and that she doesn't need another person to feel whole. She is her own superhero. But you know who does need Mike? Will. In conclusion, these plotlines aren't useless. They are set-up. EDIT: I wrote this at 2am lol. Wish I would've waited and edited the post a bit but alas 2am thoughts are never edited.

#this erased my byler doubt #i didn't edit this so hopefully it actually makes sense #stranger things #stranger things 5 #st5 #stranger things theory #stranger things analysis #jim hopper #mike wheeler #will byers #byler #byler endgame #byler theory #byler analysis #anti milkvan

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ym2b3 · 8 months ago

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#aesthetics #дома #80s #ussr #russia #эстетика #улица #road trip #☀️#солнце

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charnelhouse · 2 years ago

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mausoleum (1)

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (there may be more, but i'm not spoiling) Wordcount: 6K Warnings: gore. ptsd. references to captivity. implied cannibalism (no one we know and like tho). this story will be very dark, but you know a bitch likes a happy ending so buckle up. implied sex. references to suicide. there are mentions of hair. surprise at the end yay. Summary: Put on leave due to PTSD, she goes home and finds the apocalypse a really opportune distraction. A/N: Many thanks to @yeyinde and @moondirti for helping me brainstorm on this. Why am i starting a series. fml. On another note, “Slim” is just a nickname that will be explained later.

COD Masterlist

She dreamed of Kursk last night. There were hands on her as she choked on her own blood. Her eyes were swollen from the beating, and she could count the places where they had buried their blades. She was sick, her ripe-smelling injuries pulsing with infectious heat.

When she’d refused to give them information, they had done the rest for fun.

She was sitting in that chair. The cold, metal seat that became slippery from her sweat and blood. Her ankles screaming from the zip ties around the chair’s legs. Her arms wrenched so far back that she was certain the joints would pop.

Go far away in your head. Go somewhere else. Go be -

The room switched, and she was staring up at him. His features were riddled with shadows. Unclear. His thick hair was dark in the damp light as it curled over his brow. He lowered his head, bare nose brushing her cheek as his full lips found purchase along her jaw.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered into her ear as he braced his weight above her body. Behind his blurry face, the ceiling oozed. She was still in the cell. She was still there, but he was with her. She had wished for him then, and now, in the magic of her dream, he had come to hold her through the rest of it.

Save me.

I want you to save me. I can’t do this. I can’t anymore.

She frowned, palming his chest where his heart beat furiously. Strange. His pulse never rose to such a frantic rhythm. He dropped his hips and pressed forward until he was buried inside her. It was a faraway sensation. Pressure. She felt the idea of their sex. She felt him like a memory, the ghost of his cock stretching her.

Was this the time it had happened? Was this when it took root? He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He opened his mouth. “I love -

The trip wire spouted an alert, ripping her from sleep and causing her to crack her temple against the windowpane where she’d been keeping watch. She'd passed out, apparently.

Thank God, she thought. Thank Fuck.

She couldn’t have another rancid, poisonous dream about Russia.

She rubbed the aching side of her skull, where a goose egg was undoubtedly beginning to form. She’d have to forgo pain relievers due to her own stupidity.

When had she ever fallen asleep on watch?

The alarm from her homemade tripwire jingled again. She snatched her binoculars and pointed them toward the front entrance, where the gravel drive disappeared into shadows. Nothing. It was still twilight - violet blue, but the night fog was lifting enough for her to see fairly clearly. She readjusted her spot on the second-floor ledge before scanning the rest of the gardens, including the hedge maze and fountain. A bush shivered, and there was a flash of pink.

Bingo.

In rainboots and her mother’s nightgown, she fled the room, ran down the stairs, and burst through the front door. It would be a nice bit of action before breakfast.

***

It must have snuck through a hedge or squeezed itself through the iron bars of the fence that lined the property. The grounds went on forever, but she doubted it had traversed the acres of endless green to land near her front door. Most of them were from nearby villages having wandered up the road like they had remembered to follow the asphalt. As she walked closer, the scent of death lingered among the lavender and moss. The air was fertile and rich, and when the breeze fluttered through her hair, it brought with it the earthy scent of wet wool and cattle from the stables.

Against the red-pink light of sunrise, she could see the mist clinging to the lake. She could see the tiny dark spots of houses in the surrounding hills. No lights. She hadn’t seen lights up there for several months. She wondered if it had come from one of those homes, ambling down from the peaks and into her garden.

In the quiet, you wouldn’t know what had happened. No, you’d be too focused on the sheer beauty of Northwest England. You’d realize what had commandeered Wordsworth’s attraction.

It was funny how this was the most time she’d ever spent at Ashcroft Hall. She’d never been particularly attached to her parent’s summer estate. It was beautiful. It was majestic. It was old and full of ghosts, and when she was a child, she’d been terrified to sleep alone in one of its many wood-paneled bedrooms.

Now, she was guarding Ashcroft. Now, Ashcroft had become her port in the proverbial storm.

She didn’t know if she loved it or hated it. She didn’t know how she felt about anything anymore.

The world had cracked. That was the only way she could visualize it. It had splintered down the center, infection cobwebbing outward to raze cities, countries, and continents.

She supposed that she had crumpled with it. The situation in Kursk had removed a vital piece of herself that she had been unable to replace. It was only a coincidence that news stations had begun to report on the infection a month after she’d been rescued.

By then, she’d been put on leave and carted back to her parent's home to recover. No one outside of her team could look her in the eye, and that stung more than the bullets and the knives. Pity. They pitied her, and there was the distinct undercurrent that they all believed she would have been better off dead.

As if she didn’t know that already.

She understood why they’d kicked her out. She was a liability. She was in desperate need of therapy. She wasn’t the same, and she never would be again.

Not after Kursk.

She spent weeks curled up in one of the Ashcroft bedrooms she’d feared as a child. She was numb - practically brain-dead on a cocktail of pills to keep her head together. She watched television. A lot of it. She saw the writing on the wall when the news became fixated on the strange behavior of the recent dead.

A young boy in Fenghuang had woken up mid-burial.

An old woman in Sydney had sat up off her gurney.

A famous singer had been nearly cut in half from a car accident, and there was footage of him crawling across the road.

That image had stayed at the forefront of her mind to this day. She’d thought she was numb to violence and gore, but seeing a corpse dragging his obliterated carcass behind him had shaken her.

Those initial days had been dark. She stopped the pills and instead focused on preparation. She had an underground contact slip into her London apartment and drive her weapons up North. She restocked her father’s armory with AK-47s, submachine guns, and sniper rifles.

She stockpiled candles and kerosene for oil lamps. Seeds. Small livestock in addition to the horses, cows, and chickens they already had at Ashcroft. Batteries. Radios. Medications. First Aid Kits. Flashlights.

She’d been so focused on her project that it didn’t register when the rest of the world realized this wasn’t just the media exaggerating. It was real.

She hadn’t looked at her phone in a week, and when she did, she saw two missed calls and two texts. Two from Price. Two from Soap.

Call me.

Call me ASAP.

But by then, the cell towers and wifi had gone out. The Eastern Seaboard twitched black as the cities fell first. Paris was overrun. New York was decimated. When London burned, she’d been forced to shut the television off. She couldn’t bear the image of it scorched and empty. She did not want to think of the pubs she had frequented with her team blackened and silent.

Had they made it home? They were probably safe and secure on a military base. They were probably in better shape than she was.

After the major cities, the smaller areas were next on the chopping block.

There was screaming. Insistent screaming she could hear from Ashcroft. It rang out like one high-pitched musical note. Fires started. There was smoke slithering from the little towns nestled in the hills. The weather had been crisp. The sky was a raw shade of blue, and she thought it mocked her.

Society was burning, and everything else was lovely.

To make matters worse, she could not stop thinking about Kursk. She could not push it away. It caused her to swell with guilt because everything else had gone to shit, and what was her grief compared to the apocalypse.

There came the point when she chose to bury it. She did what every therapist had warned her against doing. She took Kursk and stuffed it beneath her ribs, behind her liver, where it could not distract her.

She’d set up a radio but rarely listened to it. It was nothing but sticky shrieks for help and aid, and please, where is shelter, food, or a cure? Everything is gone, and we have children.

Gradually, the radio became mostly static. There’d be the occasional clip of a song or a snarling preacher spouting about fire and brimstone as the last vestiges of humanity clung to the airwaves.

She had no room in her for kindness. She felt stripped to her bones, and that’s what she wanted. Bones. Dust. No emotions. No empathy. No love. She thought of the texts and phone calls from Soap and Price, and she assumed the worst. Either they were dead, saving babies, or something equally heroic.

She knew Price. He wouldn’t have just run. Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro would have followed him.

He would have stayed. He would have died fighting because that was just who he was.

She, on the other hand, stayed in place. She bunkered down and made lists.

She was very good at surviving.

***

Its moans shuddered through the gardens as its feet scraped across gravel. She was surprised it could make such sounds. She’d seen several with their vocal cords split into ribbons; tongues chewed to mush. Those corpses so deteriorated from the sun or hard rain that they could only manage a thin whistle. It had to be muscle memory. Even in death, they remembered the inclination to speak and be heard.

She loosely spun the ax in her hand as she studied the intruder.

“How’d you get in here, hmm?” The question slipped between them, echoing in the pleasant morning quiet. The garden was a riot of colors: magenta tulips, cream-white and orange daffodils, violets, and golden primroses. Amidst the fruity sweetness was the cloying scent of decay. Insects buzzed. The wind rustled the magnolia trees.

The maze of hedges was beginning to lose its shape and would undoubtedly grow wild as time passed. The shrubs were distorted, and the grass was too long.

As she closed in, it jerked its head at her scent. For a moment, she felt that tantalizing bite of adrenaline. Every drop of her blood pulsed between her ears. Her heart throbbed as she lifted the ax just as it twisted around to look at her.

Its foggy eyes were unseeing, the pupils unevenly dilated. Its flesh was a myriad of shades, not unlike the colorful garden around them. Purple. Green. Yellow. White. A few wet strands of hair were clinging to the crown of the skull. She could see inside its chest where the brown lungs had shriveled within a mottled rib cage.

When she brought the ax down, it grunted. The bone split. The blood was sluggish and the color of tar. It had been a person once. A woman. Her terry cloth bathroom was still attached to what was left of her arms.

She swallowed thickly, wiping the blade of the ax on the ground. The blood and gristle smelled terrible, but it was impossible to escape it. It had almost become familiar.

She was lucky. Ashcroft was located on hundreds of acres of land. She bet the cities were far worse. She bet that death stench hung over it like a fish bowl.

She glanced back at the Jacobean estate. It was certainly a fortress with its turrets, towers and red sandstone facade. The place dated back to the sixteenth century and had been altered and renovated due to fire and two World Wars. It was far too big for her to care for herself. The staff had fled or were infected. Her parents had been dead before everything exploded, and they had left the damn thing to her. Fresh from the medical facility, she’d shown up to a home she hadn’t considered hers in years.

It would fall apart; the grounds would turn back to nature. For now, she had opted to inhabit sections. The kitchen, the library, the billiard room, and the master bedroom with its bay windows that offered a perfect view of the main path to the front gate.

With her foot, she nudged the dead woman onto her back. The shriveled corpse looked disturbing against the emerald green grass. She’d need a wheelbarrow and gloves to remove her.

She sighed, turning her face toward the sun and allowing it to warm her skin.

She’d handle the body in a minute.

***

“Nice form, Slim.”

She spun around to find Bambi staring at her from the veranda. Clad in ratty shorts, a sweat-stained tank, and knee socks, Bambi looked like a washed-down version of a pervy uncle. Gone were the strappy heels and Selkie baby doll dresses. No more black cards, Ibiza, or Annabel’s.

“I think dad used to wear that same outfit,” Slim quipped, and Bambi narrowed her eyes, chin thrust out and nose tipped upward with her special kind of arrogance.

“Times are dire, G.I. Jane,” she huffed, gesturing to her outfit. “I’m too lazy to wash this shit by hand so it shall serve me another day.”

Slim laughed. Bambi was disarming and unpredictable. Gorgeous and sometimes mean as a snake though the apocalypse had humbled her a bit.

“You look gross,” Bambi remarked as she folded her arms over her tits. “Think there’s some brain on you.”

A bit. Humbled a bit.

Truth be told, Slim probably would have drowned herself in the lake if it hadn’t been for Bambi. Two months into the end of the world, her childhood best friend showed up at her door. She was dirty, her hair greasy, and her face gaunt, but her dark eyes still sparked with life. Everyone was dead, but Bambi, spoiled and regal, was burning with a vivacity that Slim no longer felt.

She’d run from London before they started shutting down the exits.

“I knew you’d be here,” Bambi had whispered before throwing her arms around her neck. ‘I fucking knew it.”

Slim was so stunned that she didn’t even check her for bites. Bambi’s mouth brushed her ear, her fingers clenched in her t-shirt. “I knew that if anyone could survive this, it would be you.” She pulled away, dry, pale lips cracking around a smile. “You can protect me.”

She’d had a car for a good part of it, but things fell apart by Manchester. The traffic was unbreachable. Someone started shooting.

“I hid in the backseat with a blanket for maybe two days. I remember two dawns, at least. No one gave a shit about the cars because the roads were blocked. People shot at each other instead.” Bambi sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “A bullet went through my window, and I stayed frozen. There was this guy - this kid, maybe seventeen, who’d been shot in the head, and he fell across the hood of my car like crazy perfectly. It was so weird. I’d never seen someone dead, and I remember thinking about how you saw people die all the time - you’d killed people and survived so much, and maybe this was a sign, and so I realized I had to get to you.

“Assumed I’d still be in Cartmel?”

“Last we spoke, you were there, and I figured it’d be better than any of the cities. Plus…” She’d grinned, and it had lit up her perfect face. “You have weapons.” Bambi suddenly held Slim’s face between her hands and kissed her firmly on the mouth. It was sour and stale, but she allowed it. “Now, I’m fucking knackered, you beautiful bitch. Where’s the kitchen and the showers?”

Bambi never told her what she had to do after Manchester to reach Ashcroft, and she didn’t press.

The very thought of Manchester had left her sick and shivering. It only brought recollections of him. Was he out there? Had he been on a mission on the opposite side of the world when everything burned? Did it even matter because surely she’d never see him or any of them again?

“Slim!” Bambi snapped, violently wrenching her from her memories. “What are we doing with that?” She pointed to the dead woman in the grass. “It’s ruining the pleasant vibes of our home.”

“Do we have people coming over?”

Bambi smirks and lifts an eyebrow suggestively. “You never know, old girl. One of these days, some fit fucking gents may wander up the road.”

“Because every person who’s tried to trespass has been so attractive.”

“Well - you keep shooting them.”

Yes. In the beginning, she had been ruthless about it. In times like these, you had to do what was necessary, and she had no interest in taking a chance. It was the people you had to watch out for. Not the dead, but the human beings who’d kill them just for her armory alone.

She fired a warning, and if they continued, then they were fair game. It was always the mean-looking ones, too. Beady eyes and ponchos, waving shotguns like they were playing at war. They’d see Red with her marksman rifle in hand and immediately relax. palms up as they continued forward.

“S’alright, birdie. We’ll keep you safe, yeah? You can’t stay here alone. Girl like you won’t last-”

She’d blow their skulls after that. She didn’t lose sleep over it.

What had Price told her? We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

Red would get dirty for both of them.

“Get the wheelbarrow,” she ordered, abruptly switching lanes. She turned away from Bambi’s scowling face, tucking her hair behind her ears. It had grown so long that even Bambi had offered to cut it.

Your hand-eye coordination is awful. Remember the last time you tried giving me a haircut?

That was twenty years ago, you daft cow. Who is going to see it, anyway?

I can still be vain about some things!

“I’m only getting the wheelbarrow because I know you do all the dirty work,” Bambi declared, shoving her socked feet into too-big loafers that had belonged to Slim’s pa. She began to shuffle toward the ravine at the rear of the property.

“You’ll be bludgeoning the undead soon enough,” Slim yelled after her. Bambi threw up a middle finger.

It was strange. Everything. At times, their world at Ashcroft felt normal. They could spend days drinking to oblivion without ever going outside. They’d draw the curtains and light the fireplace in the study, sliding from the velvet couches to the carpet as they giggled about stupid things. Their mouths smeared berry-red from the wine they’d filched from the cellar. They’d play cards and smoke the cigarettes they’d found in her mother’s nightstand.

“So, how were the men? They probably were all over your ass.”

“They were nice.”

“That’s all you’re going to give me? I’ve told you about that Duke -

“They were good to me. There isn’t much I can share.”

“The world’s over, my love. Afraid there’s no regime to punish you.’

“I know.”

“Fine, then. How about this? Why did you leave?”

***

“I think I’m going to head into town,” Slim announced over their lunch of biscuits and peanut butter. There was a whole pantry full of canned vegetables, bread, and hard cheese. There was a greenhouse, a garden, and small animals, but neither of them knew what they were doing. She couldn’t exactly google how to plant crops or what flourished in what season.

Bambi frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Slim leaned back in her chair as she tugged her hair into a knot. The sun was bright today, flooding through the windows and over the kitchen table. “There haven’t been many zombies lately…I want to see the status of the village and get a sense of things.”

“Sounds like a dumb idea.”

“We’re far enough away that we wouldn’t know if danger was coming until it was at the gates.”

Bambi leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “And you would shoot them before they got to the door.”

Slim shook her head. “Houses like these are more valuable now than ever before. They’ve functioned for centuries without electricity or heat. Lots of land. Private well for clean water. An army could decide to overtake us, and I can’t hold down the fortress by myself.”

‘I’ll help!”

“You can’t shoot.”

“Give me an automatic weapon, and all I have to do is aim in the general direction.”

“That’s not how it works, B,” Slim said as she massaged her temples. The headaches were becoming frequent. “I need to go regardless because I want to see if the pharmacies have any antibiotics left.”

They had several first aid kits, and when society was just beginning to rupture, Slim had collected what she could. Still, she was anxious that they would undoubtedly need more in the coming years. Anything could happen.

The scar over her belly pulsed with phantom pain. It hadn’t stopped since Russia, and she doubted it ever would.

Bury it. Bury it. That time is far away. The chair. That empty room with the dingy cot and how the metal squeaked and screeched with every movement.

She ran through a list in her head of what she needed: penicillin, electrolyte powders, moxifloxacin, oxycodone, and prednisolone.

Lists helped. The clinical beauty in the simple pattern of words kept her from spiraling into ugly thoughts.

“I could come with you,” Bambi offered. “Watch your six as they say?”

As they say.

This was the time Slim felt an overwhelming tenderness for her friend. Bambi looked frightened for her, and while Slim was primarily responsible for keeping them both alive, she understood it went deeper than that.

She placed her hand on Bambi’s wrist, fingering the Cartier bracelets that no longer mattered. She couldn’t sell them. All they’d be suitable for was to be melted down for useful things like bullets, but Slim was the last person to begrudge someone their little luxuries.

“I appreciate the help, but I can do it faster on my own.”

“Fine,” Bambi conceded. “But look for Xanax.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe, condoms.”

***

On the journey into town, it began to rain. She’d taken one of the horses, Biorn, and his damp black mane gave off a musky, animal stink. There were cars at the Ashcroft manor, but using them seemed risky. The engine would rumble and spit and no doubt draw attention to her. She also didn’t want to waste the gas.

Clad in a simple t-shirt and jeans, she tipped her head back to stare up at the sky. The clouds were slate gray and swollen. She opened her mouth to taste the rain, feeling high off the perfume of petrichor and sodden leaves. She was cold, but the chill woke her up. Her fingers twitched around the reins.

Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck like a leech.

She missed fighting. She missed the finality of a mission. You either died or you succeeded, and then it’d be over. Now - it was for always. Now, her mission was endless.

She sighed, shaking her head.

It was dangerous to crave violence. She feared what she would unleash in herself and what she’d have to face. Kursk. Him. The very debilitating emptiness he'd left inside her. It festered and spoke to her when her mind was most at rest.

“Stay alive, duchess.”

His enormous palm cradled the back of her skull as he stared down at her. “You’re the best they’ve got. Can’t do it without you.”

Nearing the town, she noticed the first signs of the infection. There were water-logged notices with peeling paint, haphazardly hammered to wooden posts.

Stay Home.

Stay Calm.

Wash Your Hands and Wear a Mask.

It hadn’t been that sort of infection, but no one knew it then.

She glanced at the woods on her right and noticed a pair of tiny rain boots. Focusing, she realized they were attached to a body nestled in the leaves. She knew there had been plenty of suicides. There’d been advertisements for special concoctions that promised no pain, and surely any place was better than the current one.

She grimaced and pressed forward. The pretty village was still picturesque with its cobbled streets and quaint cottages and inns. The River Eaa flowed at a lazy pace. There were burned-out Christmas lights in the trees. Two miles ahead, near the shoreline, was a larger town with more facilities.

The silent, empty village made her skin crawl. There was a stink from the houses. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something staring back at her in the ivy by the church. She bit her lip as she guided Biorn toward the back entrance to the pharmacy. She tied him to the rear door before stroking his muzzle and kissing his snout.

She wouldn’t go further than the pharmacy today. There was something wrong here. The rain was picking up and making it impossible for her to see or hear clearly. She was at a disadvantage, and anyone could be surveying her.

She was prized goods. The guns strapped to her hip and back. The ax in her belt. Her horse, especially.

Doing one last scan of the area, she slipped through the rear entrance.

***

It smelled here, too, but not as intense. She waited a moment, listening for a groan, grunt, or the scrape of feet on the linoleum. Nothing.

Utilizing the half-dome mirrors in the room's corners, she silently maneuvered through the aisles, heading straight for the pharmacy counter. She was quick about it as she stuffed whatever bottles remained into her bag.

It wasn’t a lot. The place had been somewhat looted. She’d hoped the pharmacist had locked it down during the worst of it. She’d hoped most of the village had gone North, toward the areas that promised “sanctuaries,” before realizing there were none.

After emptying the shelves, she raided the otc medication, leftover bandages, ointment, eye drops, and snacks. Jerky. Chips. Candy. Ramen. She walked toward the front of the store before freezing. There was someone on the ground. For a second, she had thought “mannequin,” forgetting how unlikely that would be. There was no one to clean away bodies. Mannequins didn’t belong in pharmacies.

Slowly she pulled her ax from the loop of her belt before readjusting her form. She crouched, creeping toward what appeared to be a dead man. She blinked down at him. The blood was bright and smelled like pennies as it puddled around his head. His throat was missing, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. She could distinguish the tendons and ripped flesh. Bits of the white spine. She cautiously reached for the man’s arm to touch his skin. It was still warm, and she lifted it easily. No rigor mortis.

This man had just died. But a zombie wouldn’t leave him here. They’d eat and eat until there was nothing left. Her appearance wouldn’t have registered to it.

She straightened, confused and weary. It wasn’t fear that ran through her, but puzzlement.

Thwack.

She startled and whirled around, eyes scanning from the front window to the rear of the space. There was only the pharmacy’s flag ripping in the harsh wind just outside the door. She walked toward the window steadily, ax in one hand and her other hand poised over her gun.

Perhaps it was the rain? It was coming down hard. Black sky and a heavy layer of fog. Her heart pulsed as she scanned the streets.

Thwack.

She spun toward the aisles, but there was nothing amiss. Her teeth chattered in her mouth. She was soaked to the bone, and every step brought the audible squelch of her sneakers.

Why the fuck hadn’t she worn boots?

Because you got complacent. With your sniper rifle and homemade alarms, you got arrogant in your posh castle in the hills.

Now, she was in the savage, desolate reality of the after. After the infection. After the bombs, the Hail Marys, the useless quarantines, and the suicide juice.

After Russia. After he’d run away from her and she’d gotten captured.

A deep growl sprang from the backroom. She shoved her ax back in her jeans and pulled out her gun. It felt like an appropriate time to use bullets when she couldn’t see her enemy.

Tiptoeing toward the door that led to a storage area, she quietly pushed it open with her shoulder.

Once inside, she had to recalibrate. The sight in front of her didn’t compute.

It was a man. Heavy-set. Pink skin like a pig. His short hair was matted, and he was hovering over a workbench. He raised his arm and brought something silver down.

Thwack.

It was a cleaver.

Thwack.

Each thwack was followed by a wet squelch. She heard something crack.

The room was dark, but there were enough candles to illuminate what the man was chopping.

Flesh. Pink and red and purple. Gristle. Bone.

She found herself unable to breathe. The room was thick with the scent of meat. Blood. Sweat. Innards. It reminded her of Kursk and how those cells were branded in that stench. All the dead before her. All the ones in neighboring prisons who sobbed and gurgled.

She stumbled backward, falling against the door, which swung open and deposited her on the floor. She slipped on the rain-slick linoleum, and her gun skittered away. Without thinking, she scrambled toward it.

There’s one on your back. There’s the ax. Arm yourself with something before-

Something unbearably heavy and reeking fell on top of her.

***

She was fucked. She was really fucked.

It took her a second to realize that the man from the backroom had attacked her. It took her another second to recognize that he was human. He was human and eating -

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered as she attempted to roll onto her back. Her mind was cluttered - swimming with memories of Kursk that she could not punch away. After years of training, she couldn’t come up with a single move that could force the man off of her back.

Adrenaline was pulsing through her bones. Her nerves were fraying - sparking - close to exploding, and she thought if the man buried her further into the ground, her heart would be forced out of her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She tried to reach down for her ax, but he had her effectively pinned. He was grunting on top of her, spitting out obscenities, screeching like an animal, and maybe he’d become one. Maybe, the after had effectively twisted him into something feral and desperate.

Just as her vision began to dim, the man blessedly pulled away from her. She took a deep, bruising breath before flipping onto her back. She tried to kick out at him with her legs, but he was too strong. He was huge, blocking out the ceiling, drowning out the world. He lifted his arm high, a spark from outside catching on the cleaver blade.

“Oh fuck,” she hissed before curling inward just as he brought it down.

She felt a burn. He’d gotten her, confirmed when a warm wash of blood sheeted down her shoulder into her shirt. She glanced at it, blinking sluggishly. She wasn’t entirely sure where he’d hit her because a dull throbbing began to pulse throughout her body. Everything went numb. Distant.

She collapsed backward, raising her arms to defend herself from the second hit. The whites of the man’s eyes reminded her of eggshells as they expanded across the pricks of his pupils. He was covered in a fresh splatter of crimson, and she knew it was her blood. The man’s jaw was twitching, his teeth gnashing as she uselessly tried to cover her chest. It would be humiliating if she died like this. She couldn’t leave Bambi -

The man was staring at her, and then he wasn’t. There was an abrupt snap before his head was now turned back toward the storage room. The cleaver clattered beside her. She stared at it dumbly before the weight of him straddling her thighs was gone. He was being lifted clean off of her, picked up like a sack of potatoes before being tossed aside with a guttural snarl.

A snarl she recognized.

Her gaze slid from the cleaver to the figure looming over her. Ghost. The white skull mask seemed pronounced in the gray-lit shop. She could make out the flicker of his eyes, though his expression was unreadable. He was tall and imposing, bigger than she remembered, as he regarded her silently. His bulky shoulders. His tac vest. His boots. His clothes were coated in a thick film of blood and grime. Even the white parts of his mask were smeared red.

She swallowed as she tried to sit up. Her head and torso felt so heavy, and she found herself trying to reach for him. He crouched, his gloved fist covering hers, their fingers threading together. He was so hot - so perfectly, beautifully alive, and he just threw that huge monster of a man like it was nothing. Ghost had broken his neck with his bare hand.

You saved me.

You came.

“Simon,” she whispered, though she found it difficult to focus. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder, and he stiffened.

“Price,” he barked. “She’s fuckin’ bleeding out.”

“Price?” she echoed, bewildered. Ghost tugged at the scarf around his neck before pressing it to her shoulder. It didn’t hurt, which she thought was probably a bad sign.

“They were out back,” he explained. “There were hostiles there, too.”

Hostiles. The word felt familiar.

Suddenly, Ghost stepped away, allowing another to take his place. She grimaced, fingers clutching on air. She wanted to ask him to come back. She wanted to feel him.

“Hello, darlin’.”

Price’s voice melted into her skin, and she returned his smile, though it was difficult. Another appeared beside him. Soap. He frantically opened one of the bags, yanking out gauze and tape.

She tried to say Johnny, but it wouldn’t come. Finally, he looked at her, his expression scrunched and unlike him. “Knew we’d find you trying to take someone down twice your size.” He was teasing her, but it lacked its familiar mischief. He looked truly frightened for her.

Admittedly, she found it comforting. His worry embraced her and made her want to curl into his arms because she had wished for Soap’s sweet face too many times to count in the last year.

Her shoulder twinged.

She frowned before dragging her eyes toward Price.

“Others?” she rasped.

“There are more of us out back. Most of the group.” He gestured to the dead man in the corner. “Couple other bastards like the one there.”

Ghost had already told her that, but everything was swaddled in a haze.

She tilted her head in acknowledgment as she licked her lips, her tongue dry. It was a lot. She couldn’t believe what was in front of her.

“Price,” she murmured. “John.”

His gaze crinkled, and he cradled her face in one palm while his other hand remained firm on her shoulder to staunch the bleeding. She could smell him. Sweat, dirt, and body odor. They’d probably been on the roads for months. She lifted her hand hesitantly before wiping at the oily black blood smeared across his cheek. He closed his eyes as he leaned into it.

“You look different,” she whispered as she grazed her thumb from his temple to his jaw. His beard was overgrown, and she focused on the tiny wrinkles around his eyes as he grinned down at her. Behind him, she thought she could spot Ghost’s massive form.

“It’s so fuckin’ good to see you, Red,” Price uttered, the words cracking within the syrupy wet of his throat.

Red.

Red Fox.

She hadn’t heard that name in over a year, and the implication of it both frightened and soothed her. She felt like it was her mask, her armor. It was who she had been before Russia and the end of the world.

Price’s smile faltered as his eyes darted to the scarf, sodden with her blood. Oh yes - she was injured.

“Really fuckin’ missed you,” Price said with such conviction as if he needed her to understand.

She wanted to tell him the same. She wanted to say how much she missed them.

Instead, she sank back to the floor, Price’s arms still around her back as Soap began to cut through her shirt.

---

Please comment and let me know your thoughts!! It’s going to get very angsty and smutty.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod mwii #john soap mactavish #captain john price #ghost x reader #cod mw22 #cod mw fanfiction #simon ghost riley fanfiction

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malk1ns · 1 month ago

Text

october 16 2024 @ flames, 4-3 S/O loss

D/s

Geno doesn’t like bringing his collar on road trips.

It’s something they fought over Geno’s rookie year, in the little apartment they rented when their first fumbling scenes got too embarrassing to do where either the Gonchars or Lemieuxs could hear them. Sid remembers brandishing the collar he’d gotten custom-made at Geno, who would cross his arms and sneer and spit out condescending-sounding Russian that Sid had no hope of understanding at the time.

Sometimes those fights ended in a fun way, Geno draped over Sid’s lap as Sid smacked his ass red and Geno rubbed himself off. Sometimes it ended in icy silences, Geno sealing himself away in the second bedroom they’d started to turn into a playroom but mostly was just an assortment of half-unpacked boxes surrounding the big four-poster bed and Sid pacing the hall muttering angrily to himself, rehashing the argument over and over in an attempt to win.

They’d been told they were a natural fit, the best way to ensure Geno’s smooth transition from Russia to the US. And their preferences certainly lined up in the bedroom, no problems there. But they both were cocky, headstrong teenagers, elite athletes used to getting their way, and even the natural harmony that is supposed to exist between a Dom and their sub can’t always smooth that away.

Now, though, Sid understands more about why Geno wouldn’t. He’d had so much to prove back then, that he was worth the effort and expense the Penguins were spending to keep him in America, and Sid had his own reputational issues in the league; in the end, it was better that Geno didn’t flaunt his collar in enemy arenas, didn’t make himself a target for hostile crowds and unfriendly local media.

They’ve turned it into a little bit of a game by now, too; the tease of Geno’s bare neck, the way Doms approach him in bars and at restaurants even if Sid’s right next to him because he looks unclaimed and Geno pretends to entertain them until Sid swoops in and takes back what’s his, the way the longer trips set them both on edge and eager to make up for the lack when they get home.

Sid’s happy with the arrangement. Relationships are about compromise, something they’d learned the hard way together those first few seasons, but Sid believes it’s made them stronger, able to weather storms that he’s seen break other couples. It had pricked at his pride for years even after he’d understood intellectually why Geno felt he needed to go without on the road, but now it’s just another one of the quirks that Sid loves so much about him. Geno drives too fast, he’s always late to video review, and he won’t wear his collar on the road. It’s just who he is.

Geno’s changing things, though.

The hats had been a fun introduction. Sid enjoys the scandalized looks he draws whenever he goes out in public with Geno’s name on him, likes the way Geno gets puffed up and smug and needs to be taken down a few pegs when they get home. And Geno’s so obviously proud of the collection. Sid remembers the first game after the hats had started shipping and they showed up in the crowd at PPG—Geno had talked about it all night, chattering on the drive home and all the way into bed.

Sid hadn’t expected much to come of the hats with his name. They sold well, he thinks, and Geno had sent him some pictures modeling one to get Sid worked up over the summer, but after the Halifax trip last year Geno put his Sid hat away, and that was that.

This season is different.

The first time Sid assumed it was an accident. They were running late for the plane, hurriedly packing enough for their mini-swing up into Canada and back home, and Sid figured Geno grabbed the wrong hat when he noticed Geno cramming the Sid hat on for his media scrum after the Red Wings game. He’d ignored the little thrum seeing his name on Geno’s clothing sent through him.

Now, though, it can’t have been a mistake. The western Canada trip is long, and Geno always starts packing well in advance to make sure he doesn’t forget anything; there’s no way he grabbed the wrong hat by accident this time.

Sid doesn’t say anything after the Winnpeg game, but after Calgary, with nothing the next day but sleeping in and piling on the bus to enjoy Banff with the guys, Sid can’t hold back anymore.

He stops by Geno’s locker on his way back from the cooldown room, lowering his voice so the waiting media can’t hear him. “Nice hat, bud,” he says, tapping the brim of Geno’s cap.

Geno smirks up at him, tilting his head to expose his bare neck. Sid purses his lips and turns back to the media gauntlet awaiting him.

Geno doesn’t wait for him. He never does in Canada; Sid’s media always goes unreasonably long, and if Geno hovers in the hallway someone invariably waylays him and tries to force him into giving an unscheduled interview. It doesn’t matter how many sharp words Sid’s directed at the media outlets that his sub is not to be bothered when he’s not on the schedule—the Canadian media is voracious.

Sid finds him in the hotel bar instead, tucked in a corner booth and laughing at something Ricky said. Sid watches them for a minute, and the weight of his gaze must be prickling at Geno’s neck, because he turns and finds Sid almost immediately.

Sid can see Ricky rolling his eyes as Geno gets up with barely a goodbye, beelining to Sid. He’s still got the hat on.

They’re quiet in the elevator up to the room, but as soon as the door clicks shut Sid’s got Geno pushed against the wall. Geno instinctively slouches down, widening his legs so Sid can step between, getting them as close as possible.

“You reconsidering that collar on roadies, eh?” Sid says, curling one hand around Geno’s throat and squeezing gently. Geno’s eyes flutter, and Sid can feel him swallow. “Sure seems like you want everyone to notice my name on you this year.”

“Just Canada,” Geno says, voice going low and dreamy like it does when Sid gets hands on him with intent. He slips under so easy for Sid. “They’re talk so much, say you’re leave next year, want to come play here, win with some other team—but they wrong.” His eyes lose a bit of their daze as he stares at Sid. “They wrong, and now they know for sure—you’re mine, you’re stay with me always. You’re let me wear your name, no one else.”

The fierce possessiveness in his voice is shocking, transgressive in a sub, and it gets Sid hard. He leans forward and nips at Geno’s jaw, relishing the way Geno yields to him, softening his body and inviting Sid in to do whatever he wants.

Geno wants Sid to be his? Sid can do that. He can tie Geno down on the bed and snap on a cock ring and ride him until Sid’s come as many times as he wants and Geno’s crying for release, and he can let Geno come on his face and make him clean it up after.

He’ll just have to make sure to put the hat somewhere safe first. Geno won’t forgive him if it gets dirty.

#sidgeno #hockey rpf #my writing #my fic #24-25 series

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wizzdot · 4 months ago

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The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch7

Description: PROGRESS IS MADE!!! Whoop!!! Anyway, Gaz and Soap are briefly sad, little bit more Cap in this one - he is starting to warm up and,as the pack alpha, this is important!! Laika is still very hard on herself, but I think Laswell gives her some words of wisdom. And guess who the pilot is that John stands and chats to the entire heli ride. No other than big Nikolai 🫶🏼 he will feature properly soon but enjoy his little peep into the story in this chapter.

*Laika's POV*

We load up into the jeep. I am quick to claim the same spot that I sat in for the ride here, keen not to have much interaction with the 141 pack. They hadn't really said much since I went and opened my stupid mouth. I feel Gaz shuffle into the seat next to me, too busy distracting myself by looking out of the window. There looks to be nothing for miles. Just trees and snow. You'd die out there in the wilderness my brain laughs. Not that I was thinking of running... I start to wonder where exactly it is we are. I don't even know the location of my cell.. just that we are in Russia. It's cold. I try not to take comfort from Gaz's hoodie. But I'll appreciate it while I still have it.

The jeep lurches forward. I glance up and see that Ghost is at the wheel this time. He bumps it off of the curb and accelerates onto the road, wheels spinning slightly due to the snow. I try to relax. The tension in the car could have been cut by a blunt knife. Even Soap was quietly staring ahead. My eyes betray me, filling with un-shed tears. I watch the scenery pass from the window, trying to blink away the threatening onslaught of tears. It starts to itch. I just know my eyes are red and my face is puffy. Pathetic.

The car ride seems to pass by in a blur, or maybe I passed out, I can't really tell. The next thing I see is a large concrete clearing with a helicopter and a few - three - jeeps, all identical to the one we are in. The snow had been pushed to one side, leaving a huge mound. I stare at it. Ghost hits the brakes and the car slows to a halt. The captain steps from the car and walks toward the first car in the queue of three.

He taps the window and the door slowly opens, revealing a woman. It must be Laswell. The woman who has read my file.I stare at my knees, trying to just dissociate. Johnny jumps from the car, Gaz sliding out after him. It leaves just me in the back - and Ghost behind the wheel. I know that he is staring at me from the rear view mirror, I refuse to move. I hear a tap on my window. I don't react. The door opens slowly. It's the woman.

"Y/N Y/L/N?" she queries. I turn into a statue. My eyes blinking rapidly, trying not to break down. "I'd like you to follow me" she instructs. I resist the urge to whimper in fear. Instead opting to obey. Disobedience will get you punished - my brain helpfully adds. I reach for my seat belt and press the button, releasing it. I turn and step from the car - she holds the door open for me. She leads me to the helicopter and up the ramp. I trail after her with my head down, dejected, as if I was on a tight leash. It's all so loud. The blades of the helicopter spinning, the pounding of my heart and the voice screaming at my inside my brain. It's almost unbearable.

As I make it to the top of the ramp, I see Price talking to the pilot. Gaz and Soap are sitting quietly beside each other. Soap has his head rested on Gaz's shoulder. He looks.. sad? I hear heavy footsteps from behind me. Ghost. He walks past me and sits down beside Soap, leaving a small gap between them. He looks tense. He stares at me, the eye-black around his eyes making him look even scarier to me. I stare back with big, nervous eyes and a trembling lip.

"Y/N, I'm Station Chief Kate Laswell - CIA." She seems to pause, possibly waiting for me to respond. What was I supposed to say? It's nice to meet you? - a few seconds of silence pass before she continues - "Task-force 141 were sent to Siberia with the objective to recover intel from the Russian terrorist group that, as far as I understand, you were an operative asset for, yes?"

Silence

She sighs. "I am a firm believer in justice, Laika" the use of that name snaps me out from my stubborn depressive state but I don't let it show, I remain stoic. Justice. Justice would be death. Me being killed for my crimes. "You cannot go back and change what has happened - but - I strongly suggest that you start here - with me, right now - and you can help change how this ends. What do you think?" My brow furrows. What does she mean? She must notice my confusion because she speaks up again. "I've spoken, at length, with the Captain, and we both believe you are not at fault in all of this. We want to help you Laika. But we cannot help without your cooperation".

I meet her blue eyes for the first time. She smiles at me gently, "what do you say? Will you help me? Help us..?" She gestures over my shoulder. Gaz and Soap are looking over, clearly spectating but as soon as I turn to glance in the direction Laswell had pointed, they snap their heads away and act casual, as if they weren't listening in on the conversation. Ghost looks wholly disinterested, verging on pissed off. The Captain is leant against the wall of the helicopter with his arms crossed. As I meet his eyes, he gives a quick, strangely boyish for a mature Alpha, smile and a sharp nod.

I turn back to Laswell and meet her eyes for only the second time. "What do you need me to do?" I ask quietly, voice cracking slightly. I decide if they want my help, and if they're truly the good guys this time, that I will be there obedient little hell-hound. I will do whatever they ask of me until I die or not needed any longer. This way, I would atone for my sins.

"I need you to help us, you have skills we could use, and I need you to tell me everything that they have done to you. I believe they've been dabbling in war crimes. We need to burn them to the ground. Who better to help us than their own creation? You, Y/N - you were never truly bad, were you? I can tell by your file. There was so many things you did 'wrong' - you were constantly disappointing them, weren't you?"

Wow! I thought I was making progress, now she is just slating me for how useless I am.. What the fuck?

"Disappointing them with your good nature and persistent resistance to orders - even when drugged. Disappointing them by somehow surviving every single one of the suicide missions they sent you on. You were never their asset. Never willing to comply. I know what they did to you. I'm not sure if you will remember more once the drugs have left your system - but you are strong. Stronger than you think."

Oh.. OH - It was a compliment. I feel lighter. My heart warms me from the inside. I realise that this is the first time I have felt my own warmth. Independent warmth. It's coming from me. I feel real again. Probably only fleetingly, but it's nice while it lasts, huh?

The captain suddenly appears beside me. I nervously side-eye him. "You in?" he grumbles, his raspy voice cutting through me like a knife. I nod hesitantly. "Words please. Need you to say it." He smiles again. "I'm in" ... "Captain" I add afterwords. He pats my shoulder twice, gently. "Kate will fill in your paperwork, answer her questions, it won't take long. Go and sit with the boys. We are about to take off". I nod and move to where I'd been told to sit. I step around Ghost, and sit a seat's space away from Gaz and Soap. I buckle my seat belt and rest my head back against the wall, breathing deeply.

*Gaz's POV*

I'd walked back into the safe-house just as Laika was trauma dumping details of some sort of mission to Johnny. Cap and Simon were already listening in. Nosy fuckers! Cap lifts a finger to his mouth, as if to say 'shhh' and then nods his head to the side toward Laika and Johnny. I'm not sure how this had happened. I'd left her waiting at the door just five minutes ago. What the fuck?

But jesus, her memory of that mission was bad. I'd been through lots of shit during my time, but it sounds as if she has just been through trauma after trauma. I want to step into the room and wrap her in a hug and keep her away from the rest of the world. I would never hurt her like that. Somehow, Johnny seemed to be doing an alright job of keeping her from fully losing it.

When she finishes and looks up at us, I have nothing to say. My heart aches for her. I was literally rooted to the spot. Everything happens quickly after that. Cap tells us to load up and get on the road. I feel a small flame of hope when Laika moves to my side of the car thinking she wanted to sit next to me, but instead she was avoiding me for the entire drive. She didn't look at me once. She didn't even move when Soap and I slid out of the car once we had arrived. We must have broken her trust by listening in when she was venting to Soap. Or she just didn't want us near her. I felt ashamed of myself.

I can tell Soap feels the same way. We go to the heli and sit down, stewing in each others' moods. We'd fucked up. Big time.

*Soap's POV*

She was pissed at me. I shouldn't have pushed her to spill her secrets. Stupit' bastard that I am. And to make it worse, they'd all listened. I was too caught up in her, to even realise that my pack had collected at the doorway. Poor lass was heartbroken. She ignored us and went back into her bubble, refused to even look at us.. We'd well and truly fucked it.

Gaz and I had discussed it and decided to not push her again until she approached us first. Gaz said it was something along the lines of letting her 'take back control'. I'm not a patient man, but I will try my best to behave.

*John's POV*

I'd sat up all night reading the parts of her file that Kate had sent over. Simon disappeared for twenty, or so, minutes saying he thought he had heard something. Wasn't until we'd practically surrounded the poor lass in the living room this morning that Ghost accused her of looking for something that wasn't hers. Turns out it was a fucking hanky. She had nothing left but a hanky and she had left it in Gaz's jacket. I needed to speak to Kate about her. She was no terrorist. Not in my book.

When I came downstairs with my bag, ready to leave, I heard her weeping to Johnny. My grip on the door frame had started to splinter, drawing blood from my hand. I was angry. Not at her. Never at her. But at what they'd put her through. The file didn't go into this sort of detail. I had an idea. I asked Simon to drive - deciding that my time was better spent messaging Kate. I had had an idea.

When we arrived, I made sure that I was the first to greet Kate, away from the others. "Go easy on her, Kate. She's sensitive. Needs fixed up.. she's been put through the mill with those bastards". Kate nodded and promised to go steady on her and agreed to my plan. I'd asked Kate if Laika could temporarily join us at our base to help us learn about the Russian's - their habits and weaknesses. Kate agreed that she could be valuable. I nod, but behind the 'Captain' persona, there was different reason - I want to keep her safe. She needs a bit of help right now. And the boys seem to like her.

*Simon's POV*

I had listened to the asset's little chat that she had with Johnny. Sure, she'd been through some shit, but haven't we all?

I could see the cogs turning in Cap's brain. The Captain has a habit of finding strays. Hopefully this one doesn't stay for long. Let's just hope they are right about her and she doesn't turn out to be a rat.

I was pissed off that Johnny clearly liked her. I wanted to get back to base, have a cuppa and read a book. Switch off for a few hours. But this - this was a disaster waiting to happen.

*Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

Laswell stands across from me as the heli lifts into the sky, she holds one of the straps that hang from the ceiling. Gaz and Soap are looking excitedly between the two of us. Laswell waves a clipboard. "Few questions, then I'll leave you alone. Promise" she jokes. I nod, "You can leave some of these out if you don't know the answers - we will run tests when you settle in at base, but answer what you can please". I nod again, but this time mutter "ok".

"Name?" - "Y/N Y/L/N or Laika"

"Address? - we'll leave that blank for now, Birthplace? -" I intterupt, telling Laswell my place of birth before she left that section blank too.

"Presentation" - "Don't know.. but probably Beta" She nods at my answer.

She continues asking similar questions, like date of birth, blood type, medical conditions and so on and so forth.

She then flips to the other side of the paper, which concentrates more on military training and active duty history. "I think that will do for now. John will test your fitness once you've settled in. It'll be tests like a five kilometer run, target practice and hand to hand combat - just so he can decide how best to use your skills. Does that sound ok to you?" - "Yes ma'am" I reply.

"Just Kate is fine - and Laika, or Y/N I should say.. Welcome! Any issues, you know where to reach me" she smiles and extends her hand for a handshake. I shake it nervously, breaking eye contact. She then offers me a padded envelope. I take the envelope and she immediately turns away and walks towards where the Captain is standing, behind the pilot.

I slump back into my seat and open the envelope. It's a phone! I switch it on, using the pass code Laswell had included inside the envelope to unlock it. It has the SAS symbol on the lock screen, and a few contacts already entered. Captain John Price, Sgt Kyle Garrick, Sgt John MacTavish and L.T Ghost. Shit, was that his real name?!.

I can practically feel the desperation of the two Sergeants sitting next to me. Since when did they get shy? I think to myself. I decide to be brave, now that we were to work together. I look at them both and they immediately smile, hopefully. What are they hopeful for?! I am confused.

"uhm.. sorry if" - "WE'RE SORRY" they both near enough shout in unison, cutting me off. "Wh-what?" I ask, completely confused.

"We upset you, we didn't mean it.. forgive us?"

"You didn't upse- what??" I shake my head, trying to collect my thoughts "I thought you hated me after hearing how I'd killed the young bo-" - "NO!! That's not... no.. we shouldn't have listened in.." Gaz explains. "And I shouldn't have kept pushin' ya to tell me everything.. Sorry Lass.." Soap apologises.

"Can we stop with all this bullshit and shut the fuck up." Ghost huffs, halting the back and forth conversation about who was the most sorry. Helpful as ever.

Gaz and Soap smile at me and Soap taps the seat that remains unoccupied beside them. I shuffle over from my seat to sit next to them. Soap immediately puts his arm around me and pulls me closer.

"Mmm, still smell of Tobacco, lass.. You'll be driving Cap crazy walking about like that ya' ken?"

WAIT WHAT???!

#abo dynamics #john mctavish x reader #john price x reader #john soap mactavish #kyle garrick x reader #omega reader #poly 141 #simon riley x reader #task force x reader

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