Chapter Text
Savannah had been a mistake.
It took them nearly a month to reach the city—weeks of sore feet, cold meals, and colder nights. By the time their boots hit cracked asphalt just outside the city limits, winter had sunk its claws deep into the South. The air bit with every breath, and the streets were blanketed not in snow, but in silence and the heavy stillness of abandonment.
The one mercy Savannah offered came in the form of two strangers—Krista and Omid.
They met them near a skeletal stretch of railroad, some twenty miles out, where rusted tracks cut through a decaying forest like old scars. The couple had been huddled beneath a warped signal tower, sharing a dented can of beans and body heat. Krista’s eyes, wary but sharp, had lingered on Gael a beat longer than the others. Omid had been the first to speak, offering a cautious greeting that carried a nervous warmth.
Whether it was pity or the ache of loneliness, they agreed to join the group.
But the city itself? It was hollow. Looters had swept through like locusts, stripping every store, house, and abandoned vehicle down to the rust. Even the glove compartments were barren, as if the city had been swallowed clean. Gael had seen cities fall before, but something about Savannah felt... sterile. Dead in a different way.
Then came Molly.
She’d dropped into their lives like a ghost out of nowhere—agile, fast, dressed in patched-up gear that clung to her like second skin. She spoke quickly, with a confidence that bordered on reckless, and told them about Crawford. Her voice dropped when she said the name, like it carried weight.
Crawford. The name sounded like a warning, and it should have been.
She described it as a stronghold once—gated, fortified, fiercely self-contained. But what remained was horror. The moment they reached the outskirts, the air shifted. Smoke still clung to the air, stale and acrid. Charred bodies lined the perimeter wall like warnings. The smell hit first—an oily, cloying stench of burned flesh and decay that sank into Gael’s clothes, his skin, his memory. It was the kind of smell that lived in the back of your throat, the kind you tasted more than you breathed.
They should have turned back. But hunger is louder than fear.
The plan was simple: slip in, grab what they could, get out before drawing attention. But Crawford had already fallen. Its inner streets were a tomb of the dead, a hive of walkers packed behind its walls. Hundreds of them, shuffling, dragging, snarling through the skeleton of the community.
They made it out—barely. With enough food and medical supplies to stretch more than a month, if rationed.
But it had almost cost them Ben.
They had to climb the clock tower to escape. The structure groaned with age, the wooden stairs brittle beneath their weight. Halfway up, there was a crack—a sharp, sickening sound—and Ben went through the floor. For a split second, he disappeared, his arm flailing in a blur.
Gael’s heart stopped.
Then Molly was there—faster than thought—lunging, grabbing Ben’s arm just before he slipped past reach. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his coat, teeth clenched, legs braced against the edge.
If she hadn’t caught him, he would’ve fallen. There wouldn’t have been a second chance.
They’d made the decision to leave Savannah not long after Crawford. The risk far outweighed the reward, and after nearly losing Ben in that clocktower, the group had grown wary of cities altogether. Civilization didn’t mean safety anymore. It meant death with brick walls and echoing footsteps.
Molly had joined them at first, sticking close through the tail-end of winter and the cautious thaw of spring. She was fast, fearless, and knew how to move through a town like a shadow—an asset they sorely needed. But summer brought change. Not in the weather, but in Krista.
The pregnancy had always been an unspoken truth, something they all sensed but didn’t dare address aloud. By late winter, there was no hiding it. Her jacket no longer closed the same way, and her hands lingered over her abdomen longer than needed. Molly noticed, of course. And she didn’t hide how she felt.
By early summer, the baby was gone.
They didn’t talk about it. She walked differently—hunched, hollowed out. Her grief hung in the air like smoke, heavy and hard to breathe. Molly left not long after that, her reasons unspoken. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe she’d seen enough heartbreak. Either way, she disappeared one morning before sunrise, leaving only a neatly folded note and a half-empty can of peaches.
Now, two years later, winter crouched on the edge of the horizon once more.
A gentle rain misted the darkening forest, cold and persistent. The drops hissed as they struck the weak fire, sending up thin curls of steam that blurred Krista’s face as she hunched over the pit, prodding damp coals with a stick. The rabbit Beth had caught lay skinned and waiting, but the fire refused to catch. The wet wood was stubborn, and the light downpour made sure it stayed that way.
Gael sat close to Clementine beneath the partial cover of a slanted tarp. She leaned into him, her head resting gently on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but her presence was steady, grounding. Gael glanced across the fire again. Krista still hadn’t spoken. She rarely did anymore, unless necessity forced it. Her shoulders were drawn inward, her eyes hollow with a distance even Omid couldn’t cross.
The group had tried, especially Omid. He’d whispered comforts, brought her little things—berries, dry socks, stories. But nothing helped. Every kind word seemed to crack her further, until she met them only with silence or sudden, sharp anger. So, they stopped talking about it.
That didn’t mean it vanished. Sometimes Gael overheard Clementine and Beth, voices low as they sat apart, wondering what might’ve happened to Lori. If she’d lived, her baby would’ve been born around the same time, maybe even the same week. But that conversation, like all others about the farm, never lasted long.
The farm had been... something else. Something warm and rooted and nearly safe. But the memory of it hurt more than anything.
Bootsteps approached over damp earth. The murmur of voices grew louder as Omid and Beth returned to camp, their arms bundled with sticks and branches, most still glistening with moisture. Omid’s breath fogged as he bent down beside the fire.
“Please tell me you found something that isn’t soaked through,” Ben said without looking up, his finger dragging slowly across a worn, crinkled map.
Beth gave a half-hearted shrug, her face dotted with rain and exhaustion. Omid, ever the optimist, forced a tired smile.
“We found the driest wet wood in the county,” he said. “Might not be much, but it’s something.”
He crouched beside Krista, carefully setting the wood down, but she didn’t even glance his way. Just kept poking at the embers as if trying to will them back to life.
“Have you figured out where we are yet?” Gael asked, glancing across the fire at Ben.
The map rustled faintly as Ben lifted his head. He looked older now—grown into a man in ways few of them had expected. Twenty, broader in the shoulders, with a harder jaw and quiet confidence that hadn’t been there back at the farm. The scrawny kid who used to panic over every decision was gone. In his place was someone who had learned to survive.
Where his right arm had once been, a carefully carved plank of wood rested in a snug socket against his stump, secured tight with weathered leather straps that crossed his chest and shoulder. Gael had crafted it himself—shaped the wood to match Ben’s form, sanded it smooth, and driven nails through the end in a bristled cluster. The tips gleamed faintly in the firelight. It was crude, but effective—long enough to punch straight through a walker’s skull if Ben swung hard enough. And he'd had. Practice made permanent.
Ben’s finger traced a jagged path along the map that lay spread across his lap. “I think we’re near Gatlinburg,” he muttered. “Though ‘near’ might mean anywhere within a hundred miles of it.”
Krista stirred at that, finally looking up from the failing fire. Her eyes, shadowed and tired, still held a flicker of surprise. “I can’t believe we’ve made it all the way to Tennessee.”
Omid, seated beside her, leaned into her shoulder with a playful nudge. “Remember Dollywood?” he said, voice light, chasing warmth in memory.
Krista blinked, and something like a smile ghosted across her face. “You mean the place where you ate six chocolate-dipped bananas and puked on some poor woman’s flip-flops?”
Omid laughed—an honest, open sound that cracked the tension like kindling underfoot. “She had it coming. Who wears flip-flops to a theme park?”
Clementine lifted her head slightly from Gael’s shoulder. “What’s Dollywood?”
Krista sat up, brushing damp strands of hair behind her ear. “It’s a theme park. Roller coasters. Fair food.”
Clementine nodded, lips pressed in a thoughtful line, and then settled again. The fire hissed in protest as rain kissed the logs, and silence fell back over them.
Krista sighed, long and low. “This is never going to work. The wood’s too wet.”
Gael shifted, adjusting the straps of his jacket. “Me and Clem can try cutting down a tree. Might find something dry inside.”
Omid gave him a grateful nod. “You’re a godsend, both of you.”
Gael and Clementine rose, slinging their backpacks into place. The forest around them loomed dim and damp, the beams of their flashlights sweeping over slick bark and undergrowth as they moved out of camp. They spoke in low tones, boots muffled against the soaked earth.
“I’ve got something dry in my pack,” Clementine said after a while, her voice barely above the rain.
Gael turned his flashlight toward her. “Why didn’t you say that before?”
She shrugged, eyes on the ground. “They’re drawings. Ones me and Sophia made. Back at the motel. And the farm. Our friends.”
Gael gave a quiet nod, understanding. “I won’t say anything.”
They stepped over a fallen tree, helping each other across the mossy trunk with quiet familiarity. Further into the woods, they finally spotted it—a standing dead tree, stripped bare of leaves but still upright. Clem handed Gael the hatchet, its handle smooth from years of use, and they took turns, chopping through the brittle bark and softened trunk. The rhythmic thunk of the blade filled the space between them as they talked absently about what Gatlinburg might look like now—if it had fallen completely, or if anyone still clung to it.
Eventually, with a groaning creak, the tree leaned and fell, scattering birds into the dark misted sky.
Gael crouched, fingers brushing over the splintered break. He smiled. “Dry,” he said. “It’s dry inside.”
Clementine’s face lit up faintly as she took the hatchet back and began chopping smaller pieces. “This’ll lift everyone’s spirits.”
Gael gathered the wood, tucking what he could into his jacket to shield it from the drizzle. “Let’s hope.”
She gave a small sound of agreement, and together they started the walk back to camp, the flickering beams of their flashlights casting long shadows in the dark.
Things between them hadn’t changed much. They still moved in tandem, still shared the kind of quiet that came with years of survival. But lately, even their words had slowed. A week of trudging through sodden woods, nothing but trees and silence, could press the life out of anyone.
Still, the promise of passing through a town—any town—always sparked something in them. A flicker of hope. Or maybe just curiosity.
Even after all they’d lost, that hadn’t died yet.
As they neared the edge of camp, Gael and Clementine slowed. Voices filtered through the trees—louder than conversation, sharper than concern. Yelling.
They exchanged a glance before crouching low, instincts honed over years of surviving something worse than death. Walkers were simple. People were complicated.
They crept through the brush, Gael gently setting down the bundle of firewood. The scene beyond the foliage unfolded like a bad memory repeating itself. Three strangers—armed and tense—were circling their friends. Two held rifles, barking questions with the confidence of men who had done this before. The third dug through their supplies with greedy hands.
Ben stood in front of Beth, arms raised in a quiet shield. Omid had taken a protective stance in front of Krista. When one of the men demanded to know if they were alone, Krista’s voice trembled just enough to sound convincing. "It’s just us," she said. "Take what you want. Just leave us alone."
Gael ducked behind a tree, pulling a javelin from the sling across his back. His old metal ones were long gone—lost to broken shafts and walker guts—but he managed to carve wooden ones when he could.
Clementine leaned in close. "Which one?" she whispered.
"The one at the bags," Gael murmured, nodding toward the looter.
She gave a silent nod, fingers brushing the worn handle of her hatchet. Just as they prepared to move, Gael’s eyes caught Beth—her hand creeping down, fingers curling around the butt of the pistol Ben kept tucked at his back.
“Alright”, Gael thought. Let her fire first. He would take the other.
But before Beth could move, a massive hand yanked Gael backward by the collar, another grabbing Clementine beside him.
"Well, well, well," a rough voice growled. "What do we have here?"
The man hauled both of them into the clearing. Gael thrashed, but the man’s grip was like iron. With a violent shake, he slammed Gael against a tree trunk, knocking the air from his lungs.
"Hey!" Omid shouted. "Cool it! He’s just a kid!"
The man scoffed, hauling Clementine up like a ragdoll. "A kid with a damn spear—and a girl with a hatchet? That don’t sound like just kids to me." He jiggled her like she weighed nothing. Clementine bit her lip but didn’t cry out.
The others laughed.
"Please," Ben said, stepping forward. "Let them go."
The leader glanced at his men. "Kill the guys. Take the girls."
Time cracked open. Beth moved first, stepping out from behind Ben with the pistol raised. One shot—sharp and deafening—dropped one of the gunmen where he stood.
Chaos exploded.
Krista and Omid lunged for the second armed man, tackling him to the ground. Beth and Ben turned on the looter, struggling for control. Gael, still half-held, jammed his hand into his boot and drew the blade he kept hidden there. With a savage grunt, he drove it into the groin of the man holding him and Clementine.
The scream was inhuman.
Gael staggered back, dragging Clementine with him. More voices—more lights—began to filter through the trees.
"Run!" Krista yelled. "Go!"
Clementine didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Gael’s hand, and they tore into the forest, breath ragged, hearts thunderous.
Behind them, gunfire cracked like the sky splitting.
Branches clawed at them. Mud sucked at their boots. The shouting of men followed like wolves in the dark.
"Wait—!" Gael barked, grabbing Clementine’s arm as the ground vanished in front of them.
They teetered on the edge of a steep drop, a cold river roaring below, swift and angry.
The flashlight behind them bounced with the gait of a running man. One beam. One gun. One second away.
Clementine looked at him, eyes steady despite the panic.
"Gael—we have no choice."
"I can’t swim," he breathed.
She squeezed his hand tighter. "Then hold on."
And they jumped.
The cold punched him in the chest. The world turned into chaos—limbs tumbling, lungs burning, gravity forgotten. Gael felt himself slipping, instinct clawing at the need to let go.
But Clementine held fast.
They burst from the water gasping, sputtering, Gael kicking wildly to keep them both afloat. He wrapped an arm around her, paddling toward anything—anywhere.
The river carried them down into the night, and behind them, the forest swallowed the sounds of their old life—gunshots, shouts, and whatever came next.
"Clementine!" Gael gasped, eyes wide with panic as the river surged ahead.
Through the spray and foam, he saw it—blackness yawning at the edge of the current. A waterfall.
Clementine turned at the sound of his voice, just in time to glimpse the drop. Her scream was lost in the roar as the river seized them.
The world tipped.
They were airborne for half a heartbeat—weightless, breathless, suspended in terror—before the fall took them.
Gael hit the plunge pool like a thrown stone. Water closed over him, vicious and cold, punching the air from his lungs. His hand—Clementine’s hand—ripped away in an instant.
He twisted underwater, arms flailing, heart hammering. The current dragged him down, deeper into shadow. He kicked hard, trying to rise, to break the surface—but there was no up, only pressure and darkness.
His chest screamed. His muscles burned. The river didn't care.
A flicker of movement passed in the dark—her boot, her braid, something—but it was gone before he could reach for it. His limbs grew sluggish. The light above blurred, then vanished altogether.
His thoughts slowed, his panic fading into a strange, aching stillness.
Clem... please...
If she lived—if she made it out—he’d accept this. He could.
Better her than him.
And then the world went black.
Welcome back to Deadwood! Season Two is going to be more fast paced than Season One, and just like Season One will cover a couple months of story. If you haven’t read Season One, please do! Things from it will be brought up. But I suppose it isn’t exactly necessary.
We are now 10 years old and still just as sassy. As you can see this chapter started with some introspection from Gael on major events over the past two years that we have missed.
If they are details you want, like more in depth, do not worry. I plan on as this Season goes, talking about the things we have missed. Like tidbits of a relationship or a hardship they went through. I want it to organically come up rather than info dumping on the first chapter.
Also, after Season Two is done, I will be taking a break from this series for a longer portion of time. Feeling a bit creatively burnt out and want to refresh by writing a different fic then returning to this series. More details to come probably at the end of this fic. My creativity is fickle and you may be able to just disregard this. I am writing this after already doing 20 chapters.
Anywho, hope you guys enjoy this Season, definitely a bit more action and deaths to be had. Also, going to keep trying to insert images to help visualize things, cause sometimes describing is hard.