Work Text:
Cans of food, empty containers, rope, forgotten ammo and maybe a lone deer if you were lucky.
It was meant to only be a small run for some supplies. You would have gotten what you needed and left the rest for some rainy day. The town you frequented was small and it was supposed to be empty, its residents had long since been evacuated. And probably shot down by FEDRA soldiers, from what you had heard, to prevent any more from getting infected and roaming the earth. You were in someone's old house, packing up cans of food, medical supplies and other items when you heard the sound of glass crunching. Before you knew it, an infected emerged from behind a broken-down wall and lunged at you. As you dodged and shot at its head till it dropped dead, more came.
A whole horde. As fucked up as it sounded, they looked fresh . Infected for a few days or weeks. Runners and Stalkers both. Again, the town had been empty since the first few weeks of the outbreak, so you could've only guessed that they somehow migrated to this area. Maybe followed a group of survivors, maybe bit one and infected them before quickly spreading to the others. Runners were bad because if you saw one, there were probably going to be a handful of others nearby. But stalkers? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . They were smart. They moved fast, they knew how to hide from you and would ambush you and straight up hunt you down like you're their little prey. It didn't help that you needed to use a few extra bullets to take them out.
And it was just your luck that the Molotov cocktail you had fashioned got knocked out of your hand when one of the infected jumped at you, pinning you to the ground. Within seconds, the bottle shattered and the floor was set on fire. The whole building was going to be swallowed by the flames.
After kicking the infected off of you and beating your hatchet into its fungi-covered skull, you crawled on the ground in a coughing fit trying to escape the burning house. Wooden beams fell from the ceiling, crushing a few infected underneath them. The wall beside you collapsed, trapping your lower body beneath its rubble.
The rest- they flinched and screeched and groaned, but they still made their way towards you.
Black smoke surrounded you. Strokes of fire licked your skin. Breathing had started to hurt and your eyes burned red. All you could see was the blur of lights and the shadows that grew closer.
Fire.
Smoke.
Infected.
Horde.
....Sounds of gunshots came from somewhere.
You woke up to the dull sound of metal clanking against each other. Blinking your eyes open, you were met with the dark blue sky, littered with specks of small stars. You were in the woods, on a worn-out sleeping bag and laying under a jacket that was far too big to be your own. The sweat had dried on your skin making you feel a bit sticky and tacky. Hours must have passed seeing as how the sun was high when you were in the town. Breathing hurt, every slow inhale you took felt like something was scratching the insides of your lungs and your throat was dry.
Tic tic tic tic... Foosh.
When you turned your head to the side towards the sound, you were met with the sight of a gruff-looking man hunched over a portable gas stove. The fire burned low, on top of which he placed what looked to be a pot of water.
The first thing your eyes darted towards was the head of a rifle poking out from behind his shoulders, hung by a makeshift strap across his torso. Your gaze briefly wandered to the shadow behind him, a pickup truck a few metres away from you. Your eyes went back to him, his face illuminated by the orange light. While he was staring at the water, waiting for it to boil, you could make out the tense expression behind his unkempt brown hair; furrowed brows and chewing on one side of his bottom lip. His clothes were battered and a bit dirty, but who the hell had clean clothes in this world? With the sweater, gloves and boots, he looked well-prepared for the coming winter, keeping his fingers from freezing off. Oh, and the fleece jacket that on top of you was also probably his.
With a flick of your wrist, you sat up and from your back pocket, pulled out your pistol, barrel pointed at the stranger's head.
Sure, he gave you his sleeping bag and he might have saved you from the infected horde, but that did not mean he was some nice guy you could risk trusting. No one is just nice, especially not these days, not unless they want something from you. For all you knew, he could be a part of some raiders or hunters or bandits or any other fucking club. As if the infected weren't enough, you had to watch out and hide from these types of people. Somehow, they were worse than the infected. If an infected gets you, you're dead. But if you get caught by the raiders or hunters... You'd seen enough people get dragged off to their camps- heard enough screams to know all the horrors they could do to you.
So, you don't know the stranger in front of you. And he sure as hell doesn't know you.
He looked up, seeing the gun pointed at him and he shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle. "Guess I should've left you in that burning shit hole." His fingers came up to scratch his beard nonchalantly, watching you with the most uninterested and unimpressed look on his face. He wasn't the least bit worried about the possibility of having a bullet between his brows.
You didn’t reply. You took a shallow breath and were hit with cramping pain that pinched at your chest and sides. All that smoke you inhaled was probably still in your lungs. Maybe he knew that, as much as you did, you were in no condition to fight him. Even with the gun in your hands, anxiety itching your finger on the trigger, you could tell this guy wasn't someone to mess around with.
"Your things are over there," He nodded his head a little way to your left, "by the tree." Your backpack and duffle bag were sitting at the base of an old mossy tree, along with your hatchet and empty shotgun. "If you're going to keep pointing that little thing at me, then better you grab your shit and leave without making too much noise." He held his glare at you, tired brown eyes almost turning black, a solid warning that if you tried anything-
You contemplated, giving yourself a chance to think things through. Really, if he wanted to kill and rob you of even the clothes on your back, he would have done all that before nightfall. You were most likely knocked out for five or six hours, four minimum. He had more than enough time to leave you for dead.
A sudden rustling of leaves caught both of your attention, your necks snapped towards the bushes. Before you could think of pulling the trigger and before the stranger could pull the rifle in front of him, an orange cat hopped out of the dark. Its big green eyes glistened in the twilight, as well as the silver army name tag that was fashioned to its collar. The cat trotted towards the man and dropped a rat from its mouth, paying no mind to you, much like its owner. The man's posture went back to its slumped state, his shoulders relaxed and he pushed the rifle back. He murmured something as he scratched the cat behind its ears, to which it meowed back at him. The cat then shifted its focus to the rodent, starting to nip and tear through it.
"Name?" You asked, lowering your pistol, though your finger remained on the grip.
He looked up, somewhat glad that the person he had saved was no longer going to blow his brains out. Or at least not yet. "Jambo." He said, slightly drawing out 'o' of the name. The cat then looked up at him, curling its orange tail around the man's leg.
A sigh left your lips. "I wasn't asking about the cat .” You were dumbfounded, almost amused seeing someone bring around with them a pet. This was really the last thing you expected in a world of chaos and fear.
"Oh. Right, of course." He nodded before properly answering. "Schlatt. I uh- I go by Schlatt."
You tried to rack your brain because you swore you had heard that name before. But you couldn't recall why or from where you heard it. With a parched mouth, you gave him your name in return, to which he nodded again with a rather tired and solemn expression.
Deciding that that was more than enough chit-chatting, you went to push yourself off of the sleeping bag. You were about to stand up from a kneeling position when searing hot pain shot up your thigh. For a split second, you were back in that old burning building, the fire and smoke suffocating you and the infected closing in on you. Something popped against your skin. Wincing and staggering, you dropped one hand on the ground to balance yourself as the other hand instantly went to place itself on your leg where you felt the warm tearing sensation. Only then did you notice the bandages wrapped around your thigh and the makeshift ankle brace on the same leg. There was already enough crimson on the white bandages but because you had moved so harshly, a darker red dot started to rise to the surface. You pressed your lips into a thin line, seeing the blotch of fresh blood travel further down the leg of your pants.
"Wait, don’t just-!" Schlatt hissed through his clenched teeth, "You're going to tear your damn stitches." As tall and as big as he was, his footsteps were light and almost undetectable, something he had perfected throughout the years of the outbreak. You didn't realise he was behind you until you heard his voice right next to your ear. He hooked an arm under yours and motioned you to sit back down. With his other hand on your back, you were laying down again on the sleeping bag. "Tch." The bandages were almost soaking at this point like a wet sponge.
Pulling out a switchblade, Schlatt hastily cut open the wrappings and peeled it off of the wound with the tip of the blade. There is a massive torn hole on the leg of your jeans. Your breath hitched at the sight of several messy stitches crossing over a long and deep gash on your thigh. That popping you felt seconds ago was undoubtedly the snapping and breaking of two or three of these stitches. You could see how deep the cut was with the lighter layer of skin peeking through. The area around the gash was blushing red, inflamed and irritated from all the tension and reopening of the stitches.
“What the hell, you did this?” Your breath was laboured but you tried to inhale and exhale calmly, your eyes unable to look away from your leg.
"I was trying to help you!" Schlatt snapped back at you. “But all for nothing I guess, great fucking job bleeding again.” He wasn't the best when it came to any sort of medical aid. Everything he knew he had learned on his own when the time called for it. And fuck, You were bleeding profusely when he found you. He had no other option than to hold your skin together and run a needle through you like it was a piece of cloth. Though now the stitches were popped and he was all out of medical supplies. Schlatt took a quick glance at you, seeing the thin sheet of sweat beginning to form on your forehead from the spike of adrenaline. "Used all my gauze on you, shit..." He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against your leg.
Grunting, you pointed towards your bag and no other words needed to be said after that. Schlatt shuffled both your bags closer and began to quickly look through it for anything useful. His hand landed on a tin box which somewhat resembled a first aid kit and opened it to find a small tube of antiseptic cream and a roll of gauze. He first poured water on the wound, doing his best to clean and dry the area before gingerly applying the cream. Not knowing what to do about the torn stitches, he just left them as they were. With a firm hand, he finally wrapped the bandage tightly around your leg. The bleeding would stop soon enough.
Minutes later, you were lying on your back again, the pain dully pulsing in your leg. It was sure to slowly make its way to your hips and you knew it would give you one hell of a back pain.
"Now you owe me twice ," Schlatt quipped.
Even though you felt like your already small reserve of energy had dried out, you without missing a beat rolled your eyes at Schlatt, earning you another dry breathy laugh.
Schlatt had moved to sit a bit closer to you, still on the opposite side of the fire but two or three feet apart this time. He pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his fingers and picked up the pot of boiling water to set it on the ground. Before turning off the stove, Schlatt used a few dry leaves and sticks to make a small campfire to light up the area. He poured some of the water into a metal cup and pulled out a piece of folded paper. Unwrapping the paper revealed a few sticks of what looked to be dried jerky. "Here." He placed the cup in front of you and after picking a few sticks for himself, he held out the rest.
Wearily accepting the food, you muttered thanks.
The two of you ate quietly, tugging at the stick of meat and then taking a sip of water so that you could actually chew and swallow it. The jerky was old and lacked any flavour, tasting more like leather than food. Glancing at your bag, you thought for a second.
At the sound of a zipper opening, followed by rustling, Schlatt cocked an eyebrow as he looked at you. Out of your other bag, you pulled out a red coloured can. Within days of the outbreak, people stormed every mall and shop and cleared out all the shelves. If you weren’t growing it yourself or had some inside source from the FERDA, then food was hard to find. And your luck was thin of finding something that was both edible and rotting. You eyed the can once more before tossing it over to Schlatt.
In a swift motion, Schlatt caught the red can with one hand and brought it close to his face to read the label on it. "Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli" was printed on the front of the can with the picture of, what Schlatt assumed, the said chef and the ravioli. He rotated the can, running his thumb over the metal and checking it for dents or rust.
“It’s in pretty good condition.” You said when he raised his brows at you questioningly “Canned food has a pretty long shelf life... and if that's true, I’m pretty sure we won’t die of food poisoning if we eat it.”
"Eh," he shrugged, "it's worth a shot." Schlatt rewrapped the unfinished jerky and slid it into his bag. With the help of his pocket knife, he cut open the can and poured some water into it before setting it on the fire to cook. A few minutes later, you both were eating halves of the steaming ravioli. Granted it was a bit off and you had to water down the sauce a little but it was miles better than the leather you were just eating. You did not miss the way Schlatt took his first bite and had to duck his head into his hand, eyes closed in satisfaction as he chewed. "This is fuckin' good." Finally, food that actually tasted like food.
Even the cat- Jambo came around to you, sniffing at the small piece you let him have before scarfing it.
You stuffed the spoonful of pasta into your mouth, taking a moment to enjoy the hot meal while staring up at the night sky.
A subtle sense of calm and security cloaked around, warming you like the low ambers of fire as you stole glances at the man. The stranger. You knew better than to place your trust in someone you just met. But he- Schlatt- you leaned back in an attempt to physically recoil from your thoughts- he felt different. He acted different. His eyes didn't glaze over with violence or greed, they didn’t linger on you too long for you to suspect anything nor did they threaten you (unprovoked that is). They just looked tired. Eyes that had seen too much, all the chaos and massacres that plagued the world. Eyes that bore witness to his hands trembling in disbelief as he had done the very things he swore to never do. All the scars on his face and the calloused skin proved that. Tiered tiered eyes.
You felt inexpressible relief-
Don’t.
-and a bit of regret.
You let out a long and heavy sigh, not letting your mind wander to hope for anything more than this. This was good. You would live another day.
This was good enough.
"Nice truck." You commented. It was a pretty decent rig by the looks of it; a four-seater and cargo bed which was covered with a tarp. With the way it was rusting and had its paint scratched off exposing silver streaks of the body, the poor thing had definitely seen better days. "Headed anywhere in particular?"
"Not really. The last place we-" him and the cat "were staying was ambushed by raiders. Was near the deserted FEDRA hospital down south- y'know the place where they were looking for a cure?" Then it clicked. Since FEDRA abandoned the building and withdrew the general area, quite the ruckus started going down there. Hunters started marking the area as their land. No longer heavily guarded by FEDRA soldiers, raiders slithered their way in. And that was when you first heard his name. Schlatt. He was the only one, who supposedly, gunned down more than half of the raiders before finally escaping. "We made it out just in the nick of time."
"Were... there other? With you?"
"Yeah, but uh, we got separated." Schlatt pulled out a walkie-talkie, flicking it on to only hear the sound of steady static. "It's been months so-" He cleared his throat, "They're as good as dead at this point."
But you're going to put that radio back in your backpack or on the dashboard of your truck. Flicking it on every few days or so, telling yourself that they're dead but unable to take out the batteries that could be used for something better in the future, holding on to that sliver of hope. You won't tell him to lose that hope, since hope is the only thing that keeps most of you going. “I’m sorry.”
"Nah, don't worry about it." Schlatt flicked it back off.
“Hmm...You’re headed east from here?” You asked.
His brows raised as he looked a bit off to the side, “Sure.” He wasn’t. It was as clear as the night sky that he didn’t know where the hell he was going or where he wanted to go.
“Drop me off a few miles from here.” You placed a hand on your thigh. “I’ve got...” A beat passed. Hesitation crawled up behind your neck before somehow letting go. “I’ve got a place. A small farm.”
“A farm? Like with cows and shit?”
“More like Chickens. And a garden. And running water.”
"Chickens?" The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in surprise, for the first time giving you something besides a sneer or dead-eyed glare. The only place he knew that had some sort of functioning farm was at some place called Jackson. “Aha, think you can spare some for this little guy?” He asked, eyes pointing towards Jambo.
“Why not? Drive me there and if you’d like, umm, you can rest there for a while before heading off to wherever you need to go.”
Schlatt squinted at you, "I hope you're not planning to kill me. Like, I drive you to your so-called base and a dozen men show up out of nowhere." It wouldn't be the first time he fell for something like that, but that was years ago and he now knew better than to just walk into a trap like that. A teasing grin played on his face. You shook your head, mirroring the grin and relaxed a bit as you felt a bit of the ice break between you two. “What? You pull a gun on me and think I’d trust you just like that? Geez.” Craning his neck back, his eyes turned towards the sky, looking at the moonless night while tapping his thumb on his hand and the cogs in his brain turning.
Schlatt turned back to you. "Promise not to kill me?"
How often did people keep up with those?
"As long as you promise not to kill me... or steal my shit."
Not often these days.
Schlatt let out a chuckle, showing off the row of his upper teeth. "You've got yourself a deal."