Chapter Text
You stumbled out of the cover of the trees, squinting up at the sun. You hadn’t seen it fully, out of the cover of trees, in days. Coming out of the woods and into the closest town was potentially dangerous, but you were covered in zombie guts, so you figured you’d be safe—you’d figured out early on that if you looked like them and stank like them, the Walkers would leave you alone.
Back to the situation at hand, however: You needed food. It was probably four days since your last meal, and you probably looked like death warmed over. That would be good if you encountered Walkers, of course, but you didn’t feel so great. You were swaying on the spot, nearly on the verge of passing out from dehydration and hunger, delirious to the point of not paying much attention to your surroundings as you made a mad scramble for the nearest convenience store that you could see—that is, until you hear the click of a gun hammer being drawn back, and turn your head, seeing a mad with a pistol leveled at your head.
He’s a big, dark skinned man—not big in the fat sense. He’s muscular, like he’d somehow found access to a post-apocalyptic gym and had been working out double time, and chugging every protein shake he could lay his hands on.
It seemed to you that he’d materialized from nowhere, although he’d probably been there, in plain sight the whole time, and you’d simply missed him because your mind was having some difficulty prioritizing things as of late, due to you currently dying of starvation and dehydration.
“What are you?” He speaks first, brow furrowed fiercely, glaring down the barrel of his gun at you. He hasn’t shot yet, which is a marvel, considering you probably would have shot anything that moved on sight—if you had a gun, that is.
“Human.” You manage, startled by the sound of your own voice. You hadn’t had much of a reason to talk in the past few months, being on your own and all. Sure, you’d muttered things you needed to do to yourself, and hummed under your breath, but you hadn’t honest-to-goodness spoke. “I’m not bitten.” You continued in a raspy tone. He considered you for a moment, not speaking, gun not wavering, and you had a brief, wild impulse to try to knock the gun from his hand and make off with it.
You were instantly glad you hadn’t, however, when the man turned his head ever so slightly to the left, and called out, “Tasha, you can come out now. I might need some help with this one.” And a firey-haired woman slunk out from behind a crumbling wall, her own gun hefted with an easy grace, moving like she was in the middle of a ballet performance, rather than the apocalypse.
If you hadn’t noticed the dark-skinned man, you most definitely hadn’t noticed this “Tasha” woman, and, by the looks of it, both of them could obviously kill you very quickly and easily if they took the mind to. You wondered why they hadn’t yet, and briefly considered the possibility of making a run for it, but any glimmer of hope you had for escape was quashed when Tasha kicked you swiftly in the backs of the knees, sending you sprawling flat. She dove on you in a flash, keeping you down, and got a firm seat on your back, boot-clad feet pinning your wrists to the dusty ground. You tried the sorry excuse for fighting back that you could manage, but she held you fast and grumbled, “Relax. I’m only checking for bites. You won’t have anything to worry about if you’re clean.” And set about plucking up the collar of your shirt, and scraping guts off of you in places, evidently searching you for anything that looked like a bite.
“She’s got nothing obvious. “ Tasha decided, picking her gun back up, and scrambling off of you. “We could kill just kill her. Put her out of her misery.” She suggested, speaking with the black man beside her like she was discussing who they should invite to a cocktail party, not your life. “She’s obviously already half dead.”
“ Or we could take her back to James, Steve, and Sharon. See what they say.” The man put in swiftly, raising an eyebrow at the redhead. “James can check her out anyway, even if we don’t keep her. We don’t need to kill her. Right this moment, at any rate.” He reasoned.
“You can always just…you know…let me go?” You suggested hopefully, sitting up halfway on your knees, squinting up at them hopefully. Neither of them answered you, however. They merely exchange exasperated stares, and then Tasha says, “Get up, and walk where Sam tells you to go, or I’ll shoot your skull in.”
You get up, and walked where Sam tells you to go.
Eventually, you find yourself in front of an abandoned high rise. It’s in remarkably good condition, considering all of the crumbling wreckage surrounding it, and Sam wedges the doors--which probably used to be automatic-- open, while Tasha marches you in, gun pointed to your head, only pausing once, to chuck a knife from her belt into the eye socket of a rogue Walker that gets too close. She grumbles about the loss of her knife while Sam shuts the door and chains it shut, and halfway up the stairs, at which point Sam tells her to hush up, and that he’ll get her a new one.
The three of you climb, and climb, and climb some more, at long last reaching the 15th floor, upon which Sam bangs three times on the door, and then ushers you through when it’s opened by a large man with muscles that easily combat Sam’s, who looks on with a sweet, puppy-ish concern as you’re marched past him by Sam and Tasha. You’re not fooled for one second by the blonde man’s innocent-looking outer shell though. You were never the best with people, and even you can see a kind of dangerous aura, practically radiating off of him. He’s clearly the leader, and—you decide right there--the last person you’d ever dream of messing with.
“Who’s this?” The blonde man asks as you’re pushed back on your knees by Tasha, right there in the front hall, as Sam redoes about ten different locks on the door, and shoves a metal file cabinet in front of it.
“A drifter,” Tasha answers tersely, her gun poking the back of your head uncomfortably. “She looked clean for the most part, and Sam wanted to bring her in for food and medical help.“ She went on steadily, as the blonde man crouched in front of you, his eyes flicking over your guts-encrusted face searchingly.
“This…The guts on you…does that have something to do with how you've stayed alive for so long?” He quizzed, turning your head to the side to check your neck for bites or scratches, being considerably more gentle than Tasha, but not caressing or sweet by any stretch of the imagination. You nod.
“If you stink as bad as them, the Walkers leave you alone.” You told him flatly, staring back at him resolutely. He nodded twice, before straightening back up.
“She can stay, at least until she’s fed and healed up.” He told Tasha. “Take her to James. He’ll see to her.” Tasha nodded, face pinched in evident disgust for you and the guts covering you, but nudged you with her gun, urging you back to your feet, and towards a doorway to another room.
“And Tasha?” The blonde man called after her as she lead you away.
“Yeah, Steve?”
“Put the gun away. If she attacks, I’m more than confident your gun will be out in enough time.”
“Fine.”
Tasha seems reluctant about obeying, but shoves the gun back in the holster, pushing you in front of her, down the hall a bit, in through a door to the kitchen, where a dark haired man stands, fussing over a box of medical supplies. His head snaps up when you enter, and he shoves his too-long hair out of his eyes.
“James.” Tasha greeted him curtly. “Steve wants you to clean her up. Feed her too. “ He nods wordlessly, and Tasha leaves quickly, shooting one last mistrusting look at you, and slipping from the room without a sound.