tragic-hero-03

[tragic-hero-03]

TRAJECTORY (TWO)

"How long have you been here?" The man still had blood on his face, but he sat comfortably in the cabin's single armchair. Casey sat on the creaking bed, one hand on his crowbar. He didn't want to look at the man, but couldn't look away.

The teenager shrugged. "Found this place a few weeks into it. So . . . I guess six-seven months?"

His eyes darted to the tallies he'd given up on, unsure of himself.

"Kid," The man sighed. "It's been a year, by my guess."

A year. That made sense, really. The seasons had changed, snow had come and gone. A year.

"Who else is with you? Your parents?"

"I was taking the train to visit my Grandpa." He said, shaking his head. "Just me."

His voice sounded weird. Casey's voice sounded weird. He wasn't used to talking so much, wasn't used to talking at all.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Casey Hayes."

"Well, Casey, I'm Paul, but most people call me Jesus." He peered down at him. "How'd you like to leave this place? Come and learn a thing or two about living at the end of the world?"

Yes, please, he thought. But, he didn't know this guy, this blood-covered man. He didn't know if it'd be safe.

"I'm doin' fine on my own."

"For now. But, for how much longer?" Jesus's eyes lingered on the dwindling supply of cans behind Casey. "I promise I won't hurt you, okay? But, I can't promise nobody else will."

Casey looked at the walls. They were filled now, covered in names and tallies and doodles. A year alone. He didn't want that again.

"Okay." He breathed in deeply. "Let's go."

[tragic-hero-03]

INTRODUCTION

Hi everyone! I'm TK, this is one of my Tumblr psueds, the others are

lost-girl-2021 (avatar twow)

saving-ray-23 (DC/Batman)

work-in-progress-03 (original works)

This account is dedicated to my TWD fics and headcannons. I'm also on Wattpad (greek_goddess_21) and AO3 (ReadingStuffNow) if you'd like to check out some of my other works.

[tragic-hero-03]

TRAJECTORY (ONE)

Casey had always liked fire. When he was a kid, he'd steal matchbooks and lighters from his mom whenever he got the chance. She never brought it up, unwilling to acknowledge her secret smoking habit or confront him about why he felt the need to take and take and take. They didn't really talk like that, or talk at all.

Maybe the fire is why he started smoking too. He liked the warmth of each drag, the feeling of it between his fingers, even the thick smell of it. It didn't really do anything for him, but the pleasant buzz in his chest felt nice and the slow burn caught his attention easily.

During the year he's spent in the cabin, he's learned the value of fire.

Casey has thirteen matches left. One half-empty Bic lighter. Two gas lamps that are nearly dry. A flint-and-steel combo that he took ten tries to figure out.

In the cabin, he has four books ( Moby Dick, A Wrinkle In Time, Robin Hood, and a math textbook he uses for kindling ) five blankets (all piled on the half-sunken mattress in the corner), and one winter coat that's two sizes too big. The cabin had a shotgun in it, but it's been empty for months and was loud as hell to begin with. Instead, Casey had a hunting knife the length of his forearm and the pocketknife he'd stolen from one of his neighbors years before, the initials W. D. still carved into the handle. Oh, and the crowbar.

He slept with it every night, kept it by his side all day, every day. If Casey was taking a piss, the crowbar went with him. It was like a kid's blankie, but occasionally rot-covered and cold. He hated it, but it was also the only thing he trusted to keep himself safe.

Casey had been alone for a long time.

Winter had been hard, with nothing to hunt but the dead and nobody around to talk to who could respond with actual words. At least the dead people weren't lonely.

Thankfully, after a while, the loneliness and fright were swallowed by overwhelming boredom.

He carved tallies into the wall for a bit, but lost track after a month or so. Instead, he started carving into the walls. Names, of his mom and old neighbors and teachers and anyone else he could think of. Forgetting the name of his third-grade teacher made him want to scream, like he was letting someone down by not adding their name to his walls. Eventually, he ran out of people and started on bad drawings of people and things. He tried his high school mascot, but a wolverine was kind of hard to draw (and he was bad at drawing, especially with a knife as a pen). And he'd only gone to the school for a month anyway, barely enough to figure out his way to classes. His neighbor, Daryl, had gone there fifteen years prior. His only tip was 'don't drop out' and the world had done that for him.

Casey had never missed school as much as he did during the apocalypse.

And he hadn't realized how bored he'd been until someone showed up.

The man stood in his doorway clad in leather and blood, a dripping axe in his hand. He and Casey stared at each other, eyes wide. A trio of the dead lay on the ground, unnoticed by Casey.

His hand twitched, throat dry.

"Hi."

The man wrinkled his brow, a smirk frozen on his face. "Hey, kid."