While Ira was originally born and raised in Virginia, he had always felt more at home in Oregon. The hills and mountains of the Pacific Northwest acted as shield from the memories of the east coast. He had been resentful when he was first sent to the military academy, but acclimated to the structure and felt strangely belonging among his peers. The more time he spent with them, the more they became his family. And the less his own back in Virginia felt.
Ira had lived a few hours drive from the chilly beaches. Him and his friends had made trips as often as they could, and never missed an opportunity to tease Ira for never making it past the first hour before falling asleep. Always lulled by the gentle rock of the vehicle and the soft roar of pavement under the tires.
But being unconscious and unceremoniously hauled into an RV was new.
Ira didn't want to open his eyes yet. It was calm and familiar like those trips to the grey beaches. The occasional bend in the road or dip in the pavement seemed to coddle him as he savors the memories.
Sunlight filters through the trees just to rest upon his closed eyes. He didn't think or move, allowing himself to bask in this minuscule moment of calm. He barely even registers the large pop! followed by a hiss as the RV slows to a stop.
And as much as he wants to ignore it, he blinks his eyes open and sits up. Ira's head is quick to smart at the sudden motion. "Holy shit," he groans, bringing up a hand to massage his head.
"Well, good morning," Ira turns and squints his blurry eyes to focus on the figure beside him.
"Oh, hey Jim. What's going on?" Ira sits up the rest of the way slowly, adjusting his rumpled clothes.
Jim sighs, messing with his fingers and gazing out the window. "Sounded like the RV gave out, I'm not sure."
Ira's eyes trail over Jim. To say that the older man looked unwell would be an understatement. His normally tan skin from the Georgia sun had paled and looked clammy. His teeth were chattering and he shook like a leaf on a breezy day. Ira's gaze becomes concerned.
"Are you ok, Jim?"
Jim turns to him with a pained smile. "I was bit,"
Ira's expression turns to pity before he can stop it. "I'm so sorry, Jim."
"We're heading to the CDC to see if they can fix me- if they can fix this," he gestures to the world beyond them. "but I can't take this much longer."
Ira tries to give him a reassuring smile, but it just feels fake. "Everything will be ok, no matter what happens. I'm gonna see what's going on and stretch my legs."
He excuses himself and staggers to the front of the RV with the grace of a newborn giraffe with a head injury. Looking through the windshield, he can see Shane and T-Dog watching to horizon for walkers or unfriendlies; Dale bucket hat pokes from the Winnebago's hood occasionally as he tinkers away. Everyone else is standing and talking, unsure of their next move. Making sure he has a good grip of the handrail, Ira steps out and quickly shields his eyes with his opposite hand. The sun seems more intense in Georgia, but maybe that's just him.
"Ira," Rick exclaims as his eyes catch movement from the RV. He steps over and gives the younger man a friendly clap on the shoulder. "It's good to see you on your feet, you took a good hit to the head."
Ira gives him a small smile and warmth blooms in his chest at Rick's concern. "Ya, I still feel it. But, I think you should talk with Jim, he's not doing too good." Rick nods and steps in the RV as Ira steps out. The crackling of broken pavement and debris underfoot announce his arrival to Dale, who smiles.
"It's good to see you up, son."
"I'm glad to be up and alive. Having a walker sneak up on you is... terrifying." Ira admits, trying to ignore the phantom touch of the walker's boney hand on his shoulder. "What happened after I hit the ground?"
"Daryl shot it and we hauled you into the RV. We left pretty soon after that, so you've been out almost a whole day."
Ira turns his head, looking for Daryl, and sees him pacing the road with his crossbow in hand. "Daryl," he calls, getting his attention. "Thank you." Daryl acknowledges him with a nod and keeps on pacing. He turns back to Dale. "Can I help at all with the Winnebago? Because... it's smoking."
"Aw, damn!" Dale curses and tries to ward off the smoke by beating the engine with his hat.
"I see something up ahead," Shane announces. "Gas station maybe? I'll drive ahead, see what I can bring back." T-Dog is quick to volunteer to accompany him, and they're already in a truck by the time Ira blinks. And everyone keeps standing.
Watching.
Waiting.
-
Jim dies that day.
A man without a coffin, they carry his body to its final resting place beside the road. It is his choice, one made with what remains of his humanity before the bite fully degrades his cognizance. And Ira can understand; Jim was tired in every sense of the word. He lost his family, he didn't see an end to the apocalypse. And when his own end loomed over him, he had one final wish and it was to rest.
Ira thinks about him for the remainder of the journey. He wonders if he withered away, if a walker found him before he died, or if the bite didn't turn him after all. A foolish thought, but a thought he had nonetheless.
Occasionally looking at the others, he wonders how they feel about leaving one of their own to die. Jim isn't the first time he's left someone behind, and with the world's population reanimating after death, he doubted it would be the last. Which prompted a new, unsettling thought. Would he prefer to get used to leaving people behind, or have it be just as devastating as before?
When they finally arrive at the CDC, a buzzing persists that Ira had thought to be the Winnebago before Dale shut off the engine. When they file out of the RV, it only gets louder. And when he steps out, hand up to shade his eyes, does he realize what it is.
Flies.
Perhaps thousands of flies were swarming and feeding off the carcasses strewn over sandbags, vehicles, and other bodies. The stench of it all was overwhelming and some had to clamp a hand over their mouth to keep the bile down.
"Maybe breath through your mouth?" Glenn suggests, his own face in his t-shirt as a makeshift filter, as he sees Ira's face scrunch up.
"And taste the death? No thank you,"
It's an inappropriate time for humor, but they both laugh a little anyway and trek onward to catch up with the group who were gathered around the shuttered entrances. Shane and Rick bang and yank on them like monkeys, others spreading out and following suit, but all it does is create noise. Slowly, it draws the attention of the walkers that begin to amble or crawl towards them; their broken bodies craving their next meal.
"You led us into a graveyard!" Daryl snarls at Rick and aims his crossbow at the walkers getting too close. An arrow is shot through an eye.
Shane is quick to defend his friend. "He made a call,"
"It was the wrong damn call!"
They all keep arguing, scrambling over who to blame or what to do. Ira doesn't partake -he can't- because it was wasting time that they don't have. So, he begins to analyze the situation. The shutters are too flush to the ground to wedge anything underneath, they can't break them or shoot their way through. Absentmindedly, he gnaws at the inside of his cheek.
If I were hiding in the CDC, what would I be doing?
In that scenario, if a cure hadn't been synthesized or he hadn't left yet, he would be watching the security cameras.
"The cameras," Glenn, who was busy keeping the walkers at bay, squints at him confused.
"What?"
"Are any of the cameras moving?"
Heads perk up to watch the security cameras, and soon, everyone is trading off between killing walkers and watching the cameras. But nothing changes, the cameras are still. And as human nature would have it, the arguing and banging resumes and only contributes to the chaos.
"Fort Benning, Rick," Shane pants, beginning to tire from his assault on the shutters. "It's still an option."
Ira's mouth opens before his brain can tell it not to. "No! We can't,"
Shane's eyes find his through the chaos, glaring into him as if he can see into his head. "And why not?"
Ira's mouth opens but nothing comes out.
He's waiting for you to slip up.
Say something, anything!
SPEAK.
But he doesn't have to. A weight lifts from his shoulders when Lori yells at Shane that they need immediate answers. And for now, Shane lets it go. But their interaction only plants a seed in Shane's mind, and with a little time, it will grow.
Now that the only semblance of a plan had been shot to hell, it wasn't long before the group began darting around again like frightened sheep, anxious to get back to the cars. The clamoring only heightens when Rick starts yelling that the camera moved, and Shane tries to drag the screaming man away. Glenn's hand is firm around Ira's bicep with the intention of pulling him away when something... unexpected happens.
The shutter lifts and they are bathed in a heavenly, fluorescent light.
They all freeze, startled at the movement, and stare through the doors waiting with bated breath for someone to make a decision for them. To go in, or to run back to the cars? Rick takes the first step forward, the barrel of his shotgun leading the way. And then they all move as a unit, with their eyes and ears alert and weapons lifted.
"Hello?" The words echo oddly in the cavernous lobby, bouncing off furniture holding doorways closed and boarded up windows. A bullet being loaded into the chamber of a gun is a sharp enough contrast that everyone freezes.
A man steps from the shadows, his sweatpant-clad legs are illuminated by the light. His face is still hidden in the shadows, but the muzzle of his gun is in perfect view.
"Anybody infected?" He asks, and Rick responds in the only way he seems to know how- convolutedly. (a/n yes this is a dig at rick grimes. why can't the man just say yes or no". Ira doesn't bother listening to what the man has to say, only watching the finger that rests just before the trigger of the gun. Their tense conversation is thankfully short-lived, and a deal is made. They take a simple blood test, and he lets them stay. And they were in no position to refuse.
"Once this door closes, it stays closed."
They all run back to the vehicles and collect their belongings with haste, worried that the man will close the shutters as soon as they leave. Ira's pack, his only belongings left in this world, hasn't left his back, but he still goes to help. Once all their stuff is resting in a pile on the linoleum or on their backs, the newly introduced Dr. Jenner has them sit and takes their blood samples, one by one.
When Ira's turn comes, he feels oddly nervous. Like something is going to be wrong, or go wrong. He had never had a problem with getting blood drawn or needles in general. He even used to watch as his blood was taken at the occasional doctor's visit. Now, that morbid curiosity he had roiled nauseatingly in his gut at the sight of his blood flowing steadily into the vial.
Was it always that dark?
Was it that dark when-
"Next."
-
Ira needs to get out of the shower.
Once they had learned of the food and water the CDC housed, no time was wasted before taking advantage. While everyone clambered with their roommates over who got the first shower, Ira sat against his cot with a book. He stared blankly at the same page for eight minutes when Glenn came out, steam flowing behind him and damp hair dripping onto his t-shirt, announcing that the shower was free.
Getting his blood drawn had opened a gate, of sorts. Flashes of memories, both hazy and with startling clarity, lapped at his consciousness. The water had grown cold awhile ago, but not to Ira. It was hot and thick, it felt like blood, and yet he couldn't make himself move.
He needs to pull it together.
Pull it together, Ira.
Pull it together.
Pull it FUCKING to-
"Ira?"
Shit, it's Glenn.
"You alright, man? You've been in there awhile, and there's food ready."
"Yeah, just rinsing my hair. " He hopes he sounds like a person. "I'll be out in a sec."
-
still here!! thank you to everyone who has been adding this to their reading lists, commenting, voting, and just reading in general <3