Work Text:
“I won't do this without you.”
“Chase... I didn't say I wasn't going to make it,” Stacy had told him. “I want you to keep going if, at some point, something does happen to me. That you will take care of Sam and try to move on.”
Chase stood, with his back to the wall, in the entryway of the house. It was quiet now. His heart pounded as he let his eyes drift around the room. There were three dead, one lay at his feet, and there was another outside. In the living room next to him lay Stacy and Sam.
He had found what would help her. Finally, he'd found some but it was too late. He got back too late. Stacy had turned and killed their daughter. When he had gotten back she'd screeched at him. Chase knew what that meant, they'd dealt with them before. He froze for just a moment before he'd lifted his shaking hand and shot her. Then ran outside to take care of the ones she got the attention of. He'd found himself back in the house to fend them off. Now they're all dead. And he was alone.
He slumped back against the wall. He should have run... But, he didn't... He killed her. Slowly, Chase lifted his arm and brought the handgun to his head. “... I'm sorry Stacy.” He paused for just a second before pulling the trigger. And the gun clicked. He blinked then pulled the gun away and checked the ammo. There were no bullets left. It was empty; just like how he felt.
Moving away from the wall, Chase started up the stairs next to him and started to dig through a couple of the boxes they had used for storage. There was no more ammunition in any of them. He sat on the floor and stared in the last box. A little voice of doubt in the back of his mind told him not to. But the voice went silent as he lifted the rope from the bottom of the box. He watched his hands move, turning the rope into a noose. But where could he... Chase looked up to the pillars above him.
He's heard the recognizable screech. Well, maybe he'd find some decent supplies from the remains. Soon enough he found the house. There was one zombie dead outside and the door was open. With his guard up, and machete in hand, he stepped inside. Three more dead in the entry room. It was quiet. He peered in the living room and found the screamer dead. Whoever it was is good; taking out so many. There was a noise upstairs. One that didn't sound like one of them. Half way up he saw the body swing. At first he thought the man dead before he saw him writhing, gripping at the rope at his neck. He stared for a moment. That look in his eyes. Panic. Regret.
Honestly it was not his place or business on what happened. Or why people choose this extreme method to escape their pain. But right now he felt like enough of an asshole to climb on the railing and cut him down.
Chase fell down to the stairs and tumbled to the bottom as the man cut the rope that had had him suspended. He coughed and wheezed and his lungs ached, desperate for oxygen. The man stared down at him. “Are you done heaving?” Chase coughed a couple more times, not yet recovered from his second suicide attempt. “Get up off you ass and act like a fighter.”
“What?” Chase wheezed, with what little oxygen his lungs had.
The man started down the steps. “You killed four zoms and a screaming bitch -”
“She was my wife, you insensitive fuck.” Chase forced the words out even though it hurt to do so.
“I don't give a shit.” He grabbed Chase and dragged him to his feet. “I don't feel like letting you kill yourself. You're coming with me.” Chase stared at him. The man shoved him back making him trip and fall on the bottom step. “Grab a weapon and whatever the hell else you feel like carrying.” He turned a walked away.
Chase heard him rummage about in his kitchen. Who was he and what was his deal? Chase let out another cough. Should he go? Did he even have a choice? After what he did; failing to help his wife then killing her... He should have the same fate. He wanted it...
Slowly, he moved to get up and started back up the stairs. His body felt heavy. Maybe he will go. Maybe, he could find a bullet for his gun and could still go through with it. Then the little voice of doubt resurfaced. Though it calmed as he found a duffel bag.