Chapter Text
It was dark and stormy, the wind picking up cold air and icy raindrops, spraying them against the side of long since abandoned buildings, crumbling and decrepit ruins covered in ivy and vines crawling up old supports and through the glass of broken windows. It had been raining for hours, almost nonstop since right after midday, and the water was starting to pool in the potholes on the roads, in the mud where concrete used to be, where weeds and wildflowers now grew. Occasional flashes of lightning lit up the streets, silhouetting the small figure sitting in the empty frame where a window once sat, his hood on his jacket pulled up and keeping the rain out of his eyes, his hands curling around the leftover shards of glass. His knuckles were white, but palms beginning to sting and burn from the cuts and dirty rainwater, diluted blood dripping down off the building. His eyes watched the red drops as far as he could see them, before tightening his hands on the frame again, mind racing.
Blood. Tears. Gunshot. Footsteps. Yelling. Running.
'Jump.'
The thought made his stomach clench, his heart jump and body freeze. Jump. It lingered in his mind for a moment, debating and trying to decide if he should; it would get him out of the problem he was in, and sounded a lot better than he'd ever care to admit out loud. He was never this kind of person, to so blatantly disregard his own life in such a way, to have such a thought and remark it as almost a logical option in his current situation, no matter what was happening to him. Nothing had ever made him want to just throw all he had been working for out the window like this. Not the death of his parents, not getting kicked out of the quarantine, not starving in the ditches, not watching his best friend die in front of his own eyes, not the undead that constantly posed a threat. Nothing.
But being perched on this building, nearly twenty stories high with the ground nearly beckoning him below, it was so logical, so tempting, so real. He quickly scrambled away from the edge and went to sit further inside of the building, listening to the pitter patter of rain on the windows that were left and the groans and creaks of the slowly decaying supports, slowly shrugging off his too heavy backpack and setting it down next to an old office desk, before peeling his soaked jacket off of his frame and setting it on top of the desk to let it dry. He sighed and turned back to the broken window, catching his reflection in the unbroken glass beside it. Blonde hair, getting a bit shaggy and hanging down past his ears, his face a mix of exhaustion and hardened fear, eyes sunken and a tired blue. He watched himself for a moment, before turning, finding a good place to curl up and fall asleep for an hour or so, his eyes drooping at the thought. He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, slipping his eyes closed and eventually finding himself asleep uneasily.
He was awakened to the sound of shuffling feet.
His eyes widened and he sat up, hand immediately going to the small pistol he concealed under his belt, all of his senses on high alert, listening to try to pinpoint the sound. It was another few moments before he heard the shuffling again, and he quietly got to his feet, kneeling and staying low as he grabbed his still damp jacket and back up, carefully putting them on. He pulled the gun from his waistband and held it at the ready, peeking around the corner of the desk. Nothing. He waited, hearing footsteps again, before hearing a crash and a curse, but it didn't sound like it was coming from the same level as himself. He breathed a gentle sigh of relief, standing up a little with the gun held tight in his hands, quietly making it to the stairwell and ducking into it, before silently descending. As he got to the story below him, the voices became clearer, and he paused outside of the floor to listen. Maybe they were scavengers and he could get what they had. Or maybe they were the ones after him. Either way he didn't want to let his guard down.
"Goddammit, nothing good is in this building!" He heard a man's voice yell, before there was a sharp clang and a curse.
"You moron don't kick the fucking metal," came a gruffer man's voice, before there was shuffling again and a soft thump. "Let me see. Hopefully you didn't break anything."
"Nothing's broken," the other voice said. "I'm fine."
He shifted back a little when he heard the footsteps shuffle around a little, walking closer to the stairs again quietly, trying to stick close to the shadows. 'Stay low, stay dark, stay quiet,' he heard the voice of his best friend say in his head and he sucked in a breath as he ducked in the dark corner, eyes wide as he saw the two men leave the floor and enter the stairwell.
"Well, next floor?" The gruff voice asked, the man attached to it sort of shorter and stockier, and he could tell from where he was that he had a thick beard.
"Yeah, I guess so. Not like we have a choice," the other man said, being a polar opposite than his companion. He was tall and thin, probably well built under his clothes. They turned and headed up the stairs, and he sat, kneeling in the dark and holding his breath until he heard their steps and voices muffle, before he booked it down the stairs, not caring how loud his steps were, or how loud his breathing was, or how his vision clouded with tears when he got to the bottom and the hot salty liquid poured down his cheeks as he ran down the street.
It was days before he found a place to stop for a night, muscles sore from walking and body exhausted from the lack of sleep, everything screaming for rest. He ducked into the small abandoned house, one of the few that wasn't boarded up on the street it sat, and waited in the entryway for noises or voices, but finding none. He pulled his gun out and walked quietly, checking the rooms and closets carefully for the undead, before finding the kitchen and digging around for food or water. The tap wasn't working, although he was expecting that, and all the refrigerator contained was a bunch of decades old food that was long since expired. He sighed and moved into nearest room with a couch, setting his bag down and digging through it for the candles he had, setting them on the coffee table and lighting them carefully, sighing at the small amount of life and warmth they provided. He looked up to the mantel above the fireplace, looking over the trinkets and pictures, standing to get a better look. Four pictures of kids, three of them looking fairly young while the fourth was in a gown and hat, smiling at the camera. There were four angel figures, and he picked one of them up, looking over it and humming, before placing it back down and reaching for the broken bear piggy bank. He held it in his hands carefully, turning it over to find a name written in a child's handwriting on the underside, his heart dropping at the thought. He put it back and stepped back, before looking back at the candles he set up on the square coffee table, picking up the long since written note, brushing the dust off of it.
"Mom: something is really really wrong here. Y'all don't get back from your vacation for a few days and I can't get ahold of you but they're evacuating the city and I have to go. I've got the kids and the dog with me and I'll keep them safe. I just hope you can come home and see this. I love you, mom. I love you. Love: R----"
The name was smudged and the ink had bled, probably from tears. He set the note back down, before moving to the couch, dusting it off a little before laying down, staring at the candles flickering on the table. He wondered what it was like. Before the outbreak. How things had been. He could only see glimpses and small attributes of it from the pictures and notes and belongings he found scattered around, but sometimes he wished he could see it for himself. It must have been nice. He closed his eyes and curled in a little, managing to nod off finally.
The sound of rain and thunder woke him the next morning. It was still dark outside, not even the cloudy sun that came from storms present, and he pulled himself off the couch with a grown, muscles sore from the rest they so wanted, everything in his body screaming for him to just lay down, rest some more, to stay here for a while longer, maybe to never leave if he was lucky, or unlucky. He sighed and grabbed his backpack and peeked outside, face worrying into a frown. He really didn't want to get wet, that posed so many threats and worries alone, and he didn't even know if he would be able to find another place to lay low like this, to dry off and get some sleep. It was kind of risky. He worried his lower lip between his teeth, before dropping his bag again and sitting back down on the couch. A little while longer. Couldn't hurt. Wouldn't hurt. There was no way they'd find him this far from the base. He dug through his bag for another match to light the candles again, warming his cold hands over the flame for a moment, before picking one up and deciding to explore the house a bit. There were clothes and other small things scattered around the living room, and he looked over it all, before heading down the hall, holding the candle in front of him and looking over the pictures hanging up on the wall, looking into the bathroom. There was a long since dried blood stain on the bath mat and tile, and he scanned his eyes over it, before going to the room next to it, looking around the bedroom. Portraits of butterflies hung above the dusty curtains, and the TV was knocked off the dresser, cracked and broken. Probably looters, from the early days. He left and went across the hall to the other two bedrooms, his gut churning when he saw one of them had a set of bunkbeds, pink and purple bedsheets spread on the floor, and he held his candle tighter, peeking into the other room. A bit more plain, with camo bedsheets on the single bed. He turned and left the hallway, his heart thudding at the thought of what that meant, heading to the front door and to the room next to it. There was an entertainment system in one corner and a desk in the other, and he went to the entertainment system first, holding his candle up better to look at it. There was an old, dusty TV with a game platform attached to it, and stacks of games scattered about. He looked over them and picked up a few to look, hearing thunder in the distance.
"They look cool, don't they?"
He jumped, nearly dropping his candle, and he turned quickly, hand reaching for his gun, that was missing from his waistband, his heart pounding in fear. There was a boy, probably about his age, sitting on the small futon in the center of the room, his brown hair sticking up a bit and equally as brown eyes large behind a set of old glasses. His face was kind of dirty, but his lips were pulled in a smile, which made him look younger. "I would have loved to live during that time. Read the one about the underwater city. It sounds amazing."
"Who are you," he asked, not posing the question as what it intended to be, but more of a statement, his hands shaking slightly. "Where did you come from and why are you here?"
The boy's face fell and he watched him. "I just came in here to get out of the rain. I didn't want to scare you or anything. I didn't take anything, I promise," he said, before grabbing his backpack and standing up. "I'll leave, if you want me to."
"Stay right there," he said, voice raising a bit. "Who the fuck are you? You're not with them, are you?"
"Them?"
"Don't act fucking stupid! Are you with them or fucking not!"
"I don't know who you're talking about!" the boy exclaimed. "My name is Miles. Miles Luna. I'm from the Austin quarantine."
Austin. That's where he came from. "What are you doing this far North?"
Miles' face fell again. "I'm headed to the Dallas quarantine."
"That place is abandoned. It's been that way for years. If you're looking to get out of the shit hole that Austin is, you're out of luck. It's all thats left this far South."
"I know," Miles said softly. "I'm going back there to find out about my mom."
He watched his face move, before relaxing a bit. "Your mom?"
"Yeah," he said softly, smiling a little. "My mom. She was from the Dallas quarantine. She had me there before it fell and was abandoned, but then moved south to Austin. I never knew her. I was raised an orphan."
Orphan. The word fell familiar on his ears and he wrinkled his nose. "It's suicide," he told him. "Nothing's there beside old decaying buildings and the undead. If you don't die from a ceiling caving in, you'll die from a bite."
"I'm willing to risk it," Miles said, his face full of determination and dedication, something he hadn't seen in so long, he was almost unsure of what it looked like. Or what it felt like, in that matter. Miles had this aura of it around him. He was so stupid. Dallas was so dangerous. "I need to know about my mom. And I'll die trying."
He watched him, before sighing heavily and looking at his candle. "Good luck, then."
"Why don't you go with me?"
He looked up at him, frowning and looking at him exactly how he felt he was- absolutely crazy. "What?"
"Come with me. It'd be safer to travel with someone, right?" Miles asked with a smile. "I can watch your back and you can watch mine. We could be a team."
There was no reason to say yes, to agree to that absolutely crazy idea, but before he could stop himself, he was agreeing to it and grabbing his backpack (pistol tucked neatly into it), and heading outside with Miles, the ground wet with rain and the smell of earth surrounding them. They got down the street and to the end of the block, before Miles turned and smiled at him, eyes bright. "You never mentioned your name." He looked at him, debating it, before he looked down.
"Kerry. My name's Kerry Shawcross."