[It's some of the best days he's had so far. He doesn't actually mind she has no more quotes for him. She gives him company and she's happy to let him help and she doesn't ask a single question, not once, even when he's sure it should warrant it, like his long hunts or much he doesn't do that normal people would. Maybe he won't have to go anywhere after all. Maybe he can stay and things could be nice.
She gives him a task one day, one that surprises him but pleasantly so. It's nice to have something to do and even nicer to have her trust to do it. He looks over the list, nods, and heads for the hospital.
It's a grim sight, maybe more so than the rest of the world. This was where a lot of outbreaks would begin and end and many more lives with it. The hospitals are still full and crowded, the dead meandering and ready to pounce on anyone desperate enough to go looting here. He can spot the failures among the patients and nurses, their clothing more like his, weapons still strapped to them that did nothing to help. He tries not to think about it. He can't feel sorry for everyone.
The searching still takes some time. Even with the clear list, it's hard to know where the medicines are stashed. He gets as much as he can and hopes that it's enough. Then comes the usual journey back and he's already feeling a lift in his heart, imagining her reactions.
Then he hears the gunfire. It's distant at first, but grows louder the closer he gets, taking the place of a racing heart. RATTA-TAT-TAT-TAT. Other survivors are here.
The city, which had been quiet outside of soft moaning and groaning, has become a riot. The dead lurch together, scrambling desperately for either food or their doom. He hates to move with the hoard, flickers of memories he doesn't want trying to claw to the surface, but it's clear they've all got the same destination in mind.
Is Ryder safe? Is she with them? Did she stay in hiding? Will she be able to make it there? Something. He has to do something. Gunshots sound again. He looks for an alley and starts to dart down it when he hears voices. Is that...? Is Ryder...? He looks down the alley, his passage to safety, then back to where the voices sound, somehow audible above the flood of snarls and firing shots. ]
Ry--
[It's just one shot. He's not even sure it was aimed for him, simply fired into the crowd of dead, maybe even a ricochet. But it catches his side and drops him. Out of learned instinct, he tucks himself to the alley wall to avoid being trampled, but it's the most he can do for the moment. The flare of pain winds him. He knows, on some level, it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it would if he were alive-- and of course, then it would kill him-- but that doesn't stop it from feeling like Hell, his brain or the disease or whatever it was not yet prepared to help him ignore it the way he could all his other old wounds. When he said he wanted to live, this wasn't what he meant.
The gunshots fade. Ryder's still out there. He forces himself up, slow at first, then picking up speed again. He finds the apartment covered in scrambling bodies. He doesn't have time to turn them all away. He doesn't have time to spare them. He looks and there's one with a machete still at his belt. Gritting his teeth, snarling too, he gets to grim and bloody work.
He doesn't know how long it takes. He only knows that the sky has changed and so time must have passed. He pushes aside bodies just enough that he can step through to the doors. He's not tired in the conventional sense, but he's exhausted all the same.
He walks to the apartment. He's afraid of what he might find, or not find at all.]
no subject
She gives him a task one day, one that surprises him but pleasantly so. It's nice to have something to do and even nicer to have her trust to do it. He looks over the list, nods, and heads for the hospital.
It's a grim sight, maybe more so than the rest of the world. This was where a lot of outbreaks would begin and end and many more lives with it. The hospitals are still full and crowded, the dead meandering and ready to pounce on anyone desperate enough to go looting here. He can spot the failures among the patients and nurses, their clothing more like his, weapons still strapped to them that did nothing to help. He tries not to think about it. He can't feel sorry for everyone.
The searching still takes some time. Even with the clear list, it's hard to know where the medicines are stashed. He gets as much as he can and hopes that it's enough. Then comes the usual journey back and he's already feeling a lift in his heart, imagining her reactions.
Then he hears the gunfire. It's distant at first, but grows louder the closer he gets, taking the place of a racing heart. RATTA-TAT-TAT-TAT. Other survivors are here.
The city, which had been quiet outside of soft moaning and groaning, has become a riot. The dead lurch together, scrambling desperately for either food or their doom. He hates to move with the hoard, flickers of memories he doesn't want trying to claw to the surface, but it's clear they've all got the same destination in mind.
Is Ryder safe? Is she with them? Did she stay in hiding? Will she be able to make it there? Something. He has to do something. Gunshots sound again. He looks for an alley and starts to dart down it when he hears voices. Is that...? Is Ryder...? He looks down the alley, his passage to safety, then back to where the voices sound, somehow audible above the flood of snarls and firing shots. ]
Ry--
[It's just one shot. He's not even sure it was aimed for him, simply fired into the crowd of dead, maybe even a ricochet. But it catches his side and drops him. Out of learned instinct, he tucks himself to the alley wall to avoid being trampled, but it's the most he can do for the moment. The flare of pain winds him. He knows, on some level, it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it would if he were alive-- and of course, then it would kill him-- but that doesn't stop it from feeling like Hell, his brain or the disease or whatever it was not yet prepared to help him ignore it the way he could all his other old wounds. When he said he wanted to live, this wasn't what he meant.
The gunshots fade. Ryder's still out there. He forces himself up, slow at first, then picking up speed again. He finds the apartment covered in scrambling bodies. He doesn't have time to turn them all away. He doesn't have time to spare them. He looks and there's one with a machete still at his belt. Gritting his teeth, snarling too, he gets to grim and bloody work.
He doesn't know how long it takes. He only knows that the sky has changed and so time must have passed. He pushes aside bodies just enough that he can step through to the doors. He's not tired in the conventional sense, but he's exhausted all the same.
He walks to the apartment. He's afraid of what he might find, or not find at all.]
Ryder... are you here...? are you...?