SEATTLE POLICE DEPARTMENT
DAY EIGHT
Hudson can see how it would be absurdly easy to lose your mind in solitary confinement.
It wouldn't take long at all in the circumstances he's in. No windows, no socialization, no way out. The air he's been breathing for hours is stale, imbued with rot from the corpse in the middle of the room. The room itself is dim, no sources of light besides the singular light bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. He isn't even trapped inside of a cell, but the feeling of entrapment is enough to have him on edge constantly.
The part he didn't anticipate, though, was the the way he would lose track of time. There are no clocks, no devices, nothing for him to gauge how long it's been since he got stuck in here. Hours or days, he can't figure out. All he goes by is the growing sensation of parchment in his throat; he tries to ignore it, to pretend it isn't a thought in his mind, but he's thirsty. Hungry, too, but it's dehydration that's going to kill him first.
And that fucking smell...
It's putrid. It's been countless hours and he hasn't gotten used to it, not even a little bit. It still makes his eyes water every time he gets a particularly strong trace of it, like he's enduring it for the first time again. He's resorted to sitting in the opposite corner of the room with his shirt pinched over his nose but the odor is seeping into that, too.
In all of his time to just think, he starts to wonder why there is only the one dead body in the room. Not that he's complaining, as he doesn't think he could withstand more rot, but with the number of skin-eaters that rushed out of here, it seems odd that there was only one victim in that throng.
It's like this person was used as a communal food source.
There must be some sense of selectiveness to the people they murder. Or else, why wouldn't they eat each other?
They must've also been human upon being locked in here in the first place. It's likely they were arrested on New Year's night, normal convicts. He doubts the police would have been able to capture and restrain that many cannibals and survive. Which means they must have changed upon being in here, and they had to have already been infected before that. Is it a time constraint or something else that triggers the virus to fully consume a person?
Hudson stands up then, a bit faint, and his stiff bones grind in the movement. He winces from the way the wall scrapes his back, reminding him of the wound he has there. One bit him. It has concern plaguing his mind, but it isn't the pain he's worried about, or the fact that he can't properly clean it. It's what it might make him become.
They never could quite figure it out. Him and his group, that is. They would toss around theories about this virus, how it would transfer between hosts, how it altered people's minds, but never did they come up with a sound explanation. Contagious through bites was the best they came up with, like zombies, but there was never a chance to test it.
It seemed the most probable theory, though. Hudson was always wary of that.
Being stuck in isolation has only given him more reason to think about this predicament of his, and his mind was suffering for it. He would sit there trying to list off things about himself—his name, his family members, his favorite brand of cigarettes—to ensure he was still himself. More like a reassurance, if he's being honest. If anyone heard him talking to himself like this, they would think he's a madman.
It's a cruel kind of torture, having to wait and wonder if the human part of you is going to die.
Hudson crosses the room and stands over the mangled body on the ground. He isn't sure what he expects to find, but maybe inspecting it would give him some idea on how this virus works. Not that it would matter since he won't ever be leaving this room, but if it will give him an estimate on how long he has left, it will at least make him more sane.
His eyes roam over the carcass littered with bite marks and torn flesh, only little left still clinging to bone, but his attention fixes to the corpse's face. It's the least mutilated part remaining, eyeballs still in their sockets, and Hudson notices the eyes are not white. According to news reports on the television, the eyes of the infected have a glassy quality to them, like a sheer white sheet covering the irises giving them a sickly and discolored appearance. Much like the rest of them. But this person's eyes were normal; they were human when they died.
The others in the room must have all been infected, in the process of changing, at the point of getting locked inside. The corpse in the room was the only person who wasn't infected, and they all fed from him after they turned.
Something else doesn't make sense to him, but his head is beginning to pound again and his body is beginning to succumb to his weakness. He's in the midst of returning to his corner beside one of the cells when a noise coming from outside of the room gives him pause.
A gun firing.
He's sure of it; someone just shot something in this building. It wasn't far.
In the next instant, Hudson has his ear pressed against the metal door, listening. If there are people out there, he needs to get their attention. It could be his only chance to get out of this room. There's been nothing but infuriating silence for so long, he's nearly giddy at the mere suggestion of other life.
He hears talking echoing from somewhere in the main room of the station. "Take me with you. I'm desperate."
And then another voice. "Whoa, fella, not too close. Where the fuck did you come from?"
Hudson's stomach physically drops. Godfrey.
He can't be hallucinating it. No one else talks like that, either. Fella. It's fucking Godfrey out there. He came back.
Not waiting a second longer, Hudson starts to pound his fist against the door. His heart is racing with adrenaline. "Hey! I'm trapped in here!" he shouts in between bangs. "Godfrey, let me out!"
Maybe his sister is out there, too. She would recognize his voice. His head feels light, all of this feeling a bit surreal. He didn't think he would get a second chance. Not at all.
Nothing happens for a good minute after that, but then he hears a scrape against the door. Like the pipe holding it closed is being shifted. He's holding his breath, gripping the door handle with anticipation, but it doesn't move. Nothing moves.
When he puts his ear to the door again, Godfrey is speaking, his voice getting farther away. "—good as dead. You can come with me, I have a group, but don't ask questions. We gotta hurry."
Hudson stills for a moment. They're leaving.
Again, he strikes the door with his fist, surely going to bruise his hand. "It's Hudson!" he yells despite knowing in his gut that Godfrey knows exactly who is behind the door. This is intentional. "Open the fucking door, you fucking coward!" he growls.
His throat burns from overexertion. His tongue is just so dry. He keeps banging his fist, chest heaving as he clenches his teeth and curses. His sister isn't with him; it's just Godfrey.
And he's out of luck after all.
———
somewhere near port gamble, washington
day fourteen
The birds do not chirp in the morning.
Elowen is lying on one of the brown leather couches in the living room with her back turned to everyone, facing the cushion to make it seem like she's asleep but really, she's been staring at nothing for hours. As the room begins to brighten with the light coming in through the sheer curtains, telling her it's dawn, she expects to hear birds. There are none. Only patters on the roof that she assumes is rain coming and going.
She does hear when someone gets up a bit later but doesn't turn to see who to avoid questions. There is the sound of a woven blanket being shifted followed by footsteps and a door closing. It must be the back door because she hears wind from outside before it closes again.
It's then that she peeks over her shoulder, checking for who's missing. Monroe is knocked out in the recliner, Anette on the loveseat, and Corpse is sitting up against the wall under the window with his chin tucked to his chest, seemingly asleep. She quickly looks away from him.
Flare is gone, probably to pee though she doesn't understand why he wouldn't use the bathroom, and his rifle is gone, too. She remembers him leaving it on the coffee table when they all went to bed and it's not there anymore. He's so attached to that thing; it goes with him everywhere.
As Elowen rests her head back down again, there's a restlessness to her, worse than before. It feels impossible to get herself in a comfortable position anymore, resulting in her shifting her legs repeatedly and clutching her hands at her chest. It's as if her clothes feel itchy, although she knows that can't be it because she just changed into a new pair she stole from the dresser in one of the rooms upstairs. It's something else, and she knows it has to do with Flare's absence. Which is silly, but she doesn't like him or anyone going off alone. Doesn't like it more that he took the rifle with him.
It's why they all ended up sleeping together in the living room. There clearly weren't enough couches for them all to fit, but none of them seemed to like the idea of going off to separate bedrooms upstairs. One by one, they dozed off here in each other's company, and no one said anything of it or tried to propose otherwise.
She isn't sure how much time passes before she hears Flare come back inside the house. His footsteps don't come any closer, though; they descend as if he's walked into another room.
He starts talking to someone.
Elowen sits up from the couch then, too concerned to continue playing pretend for the sake of being unbothered. Everyone else is still asleep in the living room. There isn't anyone Flare should be speaking with but he is.
She stands up quietly, so as to not inform Flare of her presence. She hopes to hear something to give her a clue to who it is he brought into this house with them, and what they want.
But there is never another voice. It's just Flare's. Moments pass of him mumbling words, to himself presumably, and she can't make it out. It is only apparent that he is conflicted. Warring with himself over something.
Elowen lets herself walk to the doorway of the dim kitchen, first noticing the rifle on the counter and then Flare hunched over the sink, his figure backlit by the cool light streaming in from the window. He's shaking his head back and forth, still speaking, louder now as if he's heard her enter.
"You shouldn't be here. It isn't right. It isn't fair."
She steps farther inside, frowning at the sound of him so distressed, and sets a soothing hand on his back. Before she can say anything to him, Flare whips his body around, their faces inches apart as he starts pushing her backwards with his chest. Something glints in the light between them; it's a knife.
She's blinking rapidly as she blurts, "Wait—"
"You're leaving me no choice, you know that? You'll never let this go." He speaks, but it's like he isn't talking to her. She has no idea what this is about. His chest expands with a full breath that he holds in, still herding her backward. She stumbles a bit.
Her hand immediately shoots to his wrist holding the knife out of fear. Something isn't right, and her mouth opens but then quickly shuts again. When she looks at him, he matches her with an unblinking stare.
There's a twitch in his expression. "Leave me alone already!" he raises his voice, and her head flinches back slightly. But then in one swift movement, he's using her hold on his wrist to push her aside, and then he's throwing the knife across the room. It strikes the window opposite them, shattering it.
The room goes still.
Elowen is breathing rapidly, a hand to her chest, watching as the tension suddenly evaporates from Flare's shoulders and he blinks at the wall. The hostility leaves him as quickly as it came. It's like he's become another person altogether.
The others come rushing to the doorway from the living room, faces still fresh with sleep that's masked by their concern.
"Did you do that?" Monroe asks, looking between Flare and the broken window.
He nods his head, stupefied, as he walks towards the window, glass crunching beneath his shoes.
"Why?" she asks then.
He doesn't answer that one. It seems like he didn't hear her at all. He's staring at the floor with furrowed eyebrows, visibly confused.
"He wasn't himself," Elowen speaks for him, trying to hide the leftover fear in her voice. "He didn't mean it."
"No," Flare agrees. "Nor did I mean to draw a knife on you, Elowen, but I did. I hope I didn't scare you too badly."
"He did what?" Corpse asks, unsure if he heard correctly.
"He didn't mean it," Elowen reiterates before things can escalate unnecessarily. She won't meet his eyes.
She stares at Flare's back with unease coiling inside of her, as well as a bit of frustration. Sure, she'd defended him just now, but that's all he's going to give her? That's his explanation for nearly stabbing her? She wants to know why he did this and what those words he said meant. It may not have been targeted at her, she was able to sense that much, but what had clouded his judgement so severely that he broke a window and almost her with it?
Elowen can't find the patience to wait until later to gets answers. "Who were you talking to?" she asks, authority underlying her tone.
Anette is bewildered. "Someone else was in here?"
"I don't know," Elowen replies, still waiting for an answer. "Flare."
"Answer her," Corpse interjects.
Flare turns to face her then, a stooped posture overtaking him, and she notices he's clutching at the rabbit's foot hanging from his neck. "No one real," he answers, and it feels as if something has darkened inside of him.
Before she can so much as blink her eyes again, something bursts from the shattered window, clutching at Flare from behind. A young woman with short, brown hair and white eyes. Flare sucks in a startled breath, eyes wide, and the pale tries to drag him through the opening. The woman is smelling the side of his head and running her tongue along the shell of his ear, meanwhile Flare is thrashing against the wall to get out of her grasp. The broken glass along the edges that must be cutting him makes Elowen grimace.
Without giving the consequences much thought, she hastily grabs the rifle he left on the counter and aims. The first thing she notices is the safety was left off; the second is just how loud rifles sound in such a small space, out in the middle of nowhere where echo thrives. And she was not prepared for the kickback. Her mind is reeling over too much to have remembered any of it.
Flare sinks against the wall as the pale drops dead on the other side. His eyes are closed, mouth parted through his panting as she crosses the room towards him and offers her hand.
"We need to leave," Elowen says with a glance to the others. Their stares linger before they move towards the living room to start getting their things.
Once Flare opens his eyes, he takes her hand without question. "I made a mistake," he says as they leave the kitchen.
"We both did." She disconnects their hands.
In the living room, Elowen returns the rifle to Flare. He straps it onto his back in its rightful place. Meanwhile, Elowen takes the silver pistol out of her backpack and begins loading rounds into it. All that can be heard in the room is the sounds of guns cocking and ammo boxes being passed around. The gunshot she fired was the equivalent of a dinner bell; they needed to be prepared.
At the very least, they're in the middle of nowhere. That gives them time. But if that pale from the window is anything to go by, then some are already in the area. But why?
"How did that pale know we were here?" Elowen asks aloud while pouring bullets into her palm.
Flare thinks through her question, evidently stumped himself before he says, "They must've followed the trail you left. The blood. Or maybe it's the scent. I don't know for sure."
That's the only thing that makes sense. She was drenched in it. It was her.
Elowen makes sure her combat knife is inside the sleeve of her boot—new boots, stolen as well—before following the others to the backdoor of the house. They file outside, weapons in hand and tucked close to their bodies. Their eyes are everywhere, keeping their senses keen for any signs. Except, Elowen feels like all she can hear is the sound of her heartbeat thrashing in her ears and it's distracting her.
"Save your bullets. It'll only lead them right to us," Corpse says under his breath.
Elowen lowers her gun and turns to check the door behind them, suddenly paranoid. They left the door open in their haste, and it's making her nervous. But it isn't a pale that makes her stomach sink, not necessarily.
On the roof of the house, a person is skewered on the tv antennas, metal sticking out of their body in multiple areas. Her stomach recoils at the sight, and yet she can't seem to tear her eyes away.
It's until something moves in the corner of her vision that she realizes there is a pale crouched on the roof as well, tilting its head, watching them. Her, specifically. She makes eye contact for all of a second before averting her gaze from the overwhelming sense of discomfort. She isn't sure how long it's been there, or if it's been on the roof all night waiting them out, but it has her nauseous at the idea and struggling to form a coherent sentence or even a warning.
The sound of roof shingles behind her compels her to start running. "Corpse!" she cries, as much as she doesn't want to need him, and he turns to her before she even finishes saying his name, it feels like. Elowen jabs her thumb behind her, in the direction of the roof, but doesn't stop running until she's past him.
Corpse takes a moment to readjust his knife between his fingers, a single second passing before he hurls it through the air, and the blade spins until it strikes the pale's left eye socket. It releases a reedy gasp, and there's a scatter of blood particles in the wind as the body drops against the roof, sliding down the shingles and off the ledge. Dead.
When Elowen spares a glance back up to the tv antennas, she swears the cadaver is gone, blood still dripping down the metal poles.
"Come on!" Anette's cold hand grasps hers and pulls her across the large, open expanse of land behind the abandoned farmhouse. They soon get submerged into a sea of trees, and even then, they don't stop running. Not until the farmhouse becomes very tiny in their vision behind them. Not until it's invisible to them altogether.
"Do you think we lost them?" Anette asks.
"If we were being chased, we wouldn't have lasted this long," Corpse answers.
Elowen looks back behind them, anxious. "That one was waiting for us," she whispers, remembering how the pale watched her. It watched the terror suck the color out of her face and didn't come for her until she started to run away.
It felt like a taunt, the way it was crouching beside its skewered victim. As if saying you're next. She isn't even sure what made her look up there in the first place; she just did.
Flare shakes his head at her. "The infected are not rational enough for that. They can't be. Their very existence is one rooted from insanity. They do not lure their victims. They attack them, and then they eat them. They are savages. It's primal instinct, nothing more."
If she didn't know any better, she'd think he sounds scared. But Flare is not afraid; he's rational.
It's her that can't trust her own thoughts.
They've slowed their pace now since realizing they're not being pursued. Flare tells them to follow the direction the moss is growing on the trees, which Elowen never thought would be useful until today. It guides them north, which is where they need to go and they can't risk opening a map to figure it out that way. Not that a map would help them when there are only trees as far as the eye can see where they are. No distinguishing landmarks, no road signs or cities.
The closest thing they get is the coast and a singular broken sign with the words KITSAP COUNTY on them. But it shouldn't be too difficult from here. All they have to do is follow the coast. Her house is on the next island over.
Her stomach churns at the realization. It's impossible for her to ignore the ill feeling in her gut every time her father crosses her mind. Going home feels like a tragedy waiting to happen.
Flare is in the midst of fixing the ski goggles on top of his head when Elowen starts to speak. "Once we get past the bridge, I should be able to recognize the way."
"You mean the floating bridge?" he clarifies.
"Yes. I used to take it every morning to get to work." This was, of course, pertaining to her first job. Her normal job, pre-Mason. There hasn't been much reason for her to take this bridge since then, but sometimes there would be...special cases. If her new job demanded it. "We should be able to make it to my house by evening, if we don't take many breaks."
They're still almost thirty miles off, she estimates, but they left the farmhouse early in the day. It's possible to arrive before nightfall.
Flare nods, still hung on something else. "That's good...now I have to know, though, what was your job before all this?"
She smiles faintly, her teeth clenching a bit in the action. "I'll tell if you do."
He ponders the proposition for only a few seconds before agreeing. "You go first. It would only be fair."
Sighing, she answers. "Office worker."
He answers, "Male stripper."
Her eyes widen comedically.
Flare lets his answer marinate with her a moment before speaking again. "Okay, now do we want to share our real jobs?"
Elowen gapes at him, eyebrows drawing together. "I did give you my real job."
"I call bullshit. Office worker? How much more generic could you get, El? Besides, you don't seem the type. You want excitement... A bit of adrenaline... Attention. You're not getting any of that sitting in a damn cubicle. So, what's it really? Promise I'll share mine."
There's a wrinkle between her eyebrows giving him all the evidence he needs that he's right about her, and it's rather annoying, if she's being honest with herself. He is not right. And she technically isn't lying to him, but there is definitely more to the story. None of which she's willing to share.
"I wasn't that curious, anyway," she crosses her arms and shrugs. "I bet you weren't even employed."
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a smirk cross his face. She's amused him. He doesn't tell her if she's right or wrong.
———
By mid-afternoon, they have their sights on the Hood Canal Bridge, better known as the "floating bridge" because of the way it sits on the water. A thick layer of dense, grainy fog hangs over the ocean and cloaks half of the bridge, obscuring their vision to the other side. It spans about a mile and a half long. It would be a trek on foot but not anything they couldn't handle. Still, Elowen's legs are beginning to burn from how many miles she's walked today, especially after being so idle on the ferry for days prior to this. She hopes they'll be taking a break after getting across to the other side.
"Think about all the people that died on this bridge that day..." Anette mumbles, a frown tugging at her lips. "They must've been so scared...trapped with nowhere else to run."
"Who said running was the only option?" Flare remarks.
Monroe shoves his head and Flare loses footing along the ledge of the bridge, clumsy in his attempt to catch himself. He sucks in a sharp breath, looking out over the water he almost just fell into, before whirling on Monroe.
"It was a joke, Monty. I didn't mean it literally."
"We don't need anyone getting hypothermia," Elowen chides from behind them.
"Then don't be an insensitive cunt, Godfrey," Monroe scolds him.
"I don't like pointing fingers, but look who's talking."
"Something bad's about to happen, isn't it?" Corpse mumbles, more to himself than anything.
The bridge is littered with clusters of abandoned cars and semi-trucks that they will have to work their way around to make it through. It's eerie, Elowen thinks, seeing the bridge so lifeless and still. She had only ever seen it crowded and bustling during the rush hours of the morning and evening. Now, the sight of another living thing would startle her.
"Let's just get through this," Elowen says under her breath. The sooner they're on land again, the better. Her calf muscles will thank her for it.
They each take their own routes in weaving around the obstacles in their path, and the bridge is wide—about four lanes across. There seems to be a silent agreement amongst them to stop talking as they make their way onto it. Elowen finds herself behind Flare, towards the rightmost side of the bridge, who is gripping onto the straps of his backpack rather tightly while keeping his eyes trained on the water surrounding them.
All she knows is, the farther away from Corpse, the better. What occurred between them last night hasn't been forgotten, it couldn't possibly, and she wishes she could run away from her problems all together but this will have to do. Every time she looks at him, her heart splits a little bit more.
One of the cars they come by has a shattered rear window, and the exposed edges are tinged crimson. When Elowen squints to look closer, she swears there's remnants of skin on the jagged glass, like somebody had been dragged out, that makes her breathing falter. But there isn't a body nearby that she sees of.
Something isn't right. It's too still.
Everyone else seems to be adequately calm about their situation, and it makes her feel irrational. She can't seem to shake off the unease coursing through her; she's always on edge now, it appears. Ever since her nightmare. Although, it's rooted much deeper than that, isn't it?
Out of nowhere a rapid thumping sound, like footsteps, emerges from somewhere ahead of them. The sound is off, though, not coming from the concrete. Not coming from the ground at all. They have trouble locating it, the sound of feet pattering in rapid succession, within the tangible fog.
Monroe suddenly gasps from the other side of the bridge, the sound distant. "Above you!" she shouts, the inflection in her voice more horrified than she's ever outwardly shown, and Elowen's eyes dart to follow her gaze with a sinking stomach.
Warily, does she see it: a man, a pale, running across the top of a semi-truck trailer, face pulled tight with aggression and eyes targeting them. It lunges off the back of the trailer without hesitation, taking something down with it. It rams into Corpse.
It's surreal, watching as the pale uses the full force of its body to throw corpse backwards, it landing into a crouch a few feet away from where he hits the ground. The fall seems to knock the wind out of Corpse, and he looks completely out of it as he turns onto his side, hand clutching at his chest for air.
Elowen looks at him longingly, suddenly terrified that it could be the last time she sees him—any of them could die at any moment—but she doesn't get the chance to act on it. Flare yanks her wrist the other way and Anette screams, the sheer sound of it vibrating off of the ocean surrounding them. It takes turning her head for her to see why.
There are more—so many more—emerging from the fog.
It all happened in a matter of two seconds for Corpse, taking him by surprise, and he wasn't prepared for it when his body got slammed onto the concrete by something he didn't even get a chance to see. All he knows is, his head is pulsing and he can't get a complete breath into his lungs. Had he hit his head? His backpack didn't seem to cushion the fall. It isn't attached to him at all anymore.
His fingers clutch at the rough concrete when he turns onto his side, sputtering a cough, but then hands wrap around his ankle and begin dragging him downward.
His side scrapes where his shirt gets lifted and he tries to kick his leg free but nails dig harshly into his ankle with an unrelenting grip. The pale brings him to a rough stop, turning him over onto his back, before trailing its hands up the front of his legs, at the same time holding him down and crawling over top of him. It craves to do him harm and sink its teeth into his flesh to taste him.
Corpse's head throbs as he tries to get his thoughts in order to think of what to do. They are sensitive to movement, he rationalizes quickly. His past encounters taught him that. He could only hope it was true of all pales.
As the pale writhes up his body, Corpse pulls out his knife from where it is strategically placed on his person and readies his arm in the air. As expected, the pale shoots out a hand to pin down his wrist to the concrete, but Corpse is already in the midst of taking out his glock with his left hand, just out of its vision.
Corpse flinches when it suddenly snaps its teeth in the air, demanding satiation, but his arm with the gun bars at the pale's neck, barely holding it back. "Fuck!" he mutters through a tight jaw, and it takes every ounce of his strength to fend it off, making his face scrunch and teeth grind, but it's not enough. The pale lunges again, desperately, which corpse manages to dodge with a shift of his body sideways.
It doesn't stop there, again snapping its jaw and whining eagerly, impatiently, and corpse is in the midst of ramming the mouth of the gun under its jaw when he realizes the safety is still off.
But right before the pale can claim him, which it was seconds away from doing, it stills. Its discolored eyes finally stop flickering as blood begins to trickle from the temple of its forehead, where it's been impaled with a knife by Monroe. He pushes the limp body off of him before it can fall, and his muscles finally slacken some.
Corpse's gaze shoots upwards to Monroe, his chest heaving, and they lock eyes momentarily. He's in a bit of a shock, stunned by her help, grateful for it nonetheless. He nods his head, and a wordless thank you travels between them.
His surroundings finally sink in, and the noise around him comes rushing into his head. The strong breeze, the unfamiliar and distorted voices, the screaming. Not a moment later, he catches sight of two pales sprinting towards them, crashing into each other, fighting to reach them first. He blinks twice to ensure this is really happening.
Corpse's mind is finally clear enough to think coherently after his near death experience, and he doesn't hesitate to lift the glock in his hand and aim. "Watch out!" He shoots two headshots, using three bullets when he misses the first shot, before they can make it to Monroe. She whirls around, her eyes following the bullets through the air, just as stunned as he was at the sight. The crack of the bullets echoes off of the water, the sound dangerously amplified, and it drives everything into chaos.
"Get off your ass. We need you," Monroe turns back around and offers him a hand.
But he waves her off, reaching for his backpack on the ground. "I got it." He stands on his own. "Can you handle a gun?" he asks her, pertaining to her hindered arm.
She glowers, "Of course." She looks down to grab her gun.
He grins a bit to himself, wondering why he doubted her. "Keep your eyes up," Corpse advises and steps in front of her while she readies herself.
It's then that he sees the extent of what they're working with. Bodies have already begun piling up the bridge before them, and Flare's rifle hasn't stopped firing from the other side. His sight catches onto Elowen for too long, who's beside Flare and firing the pistol. He forces himself to turn his focus back to the fog and starts aiming.
She'll be okay. She will she will she will.
Last night in the shower was not the last time he would get to touch her.
Elowen feels as though her hand is working autonomously. Her stomach churns watching as her finger pulls the trigger and a body falls limp only feet away from her. It's targets she's used to shooting, after all, not people. It's difficult to remember that these are not truly people when they look so human. They're predators, beyond any form of help.
It's them or me.
She's grateful for Flare, who is doing most of the work and covering her, but once she's forced herself out of her own head, she starts to hold her own and gets good practice shooting down pales. Any time she misses a shot, which is rare, Flare is there to finish the job.
Her arm gets yanked suddenly, and she sucks in a sharp breath full of dread. Her body gets turned around and she's faced with a pale lunging for her with blurring speed that's snapping its jaw. As she raises the gun, her arm tensing, she manages to shoot its leg, right in the knee. The pale is verbal about its anger, howling "no!" as its leg twists inward and it stumbles. It's getting back up again when elowen shoots its head.
When she turns around, huffing a breath, it's Anette she meets eyes with, cowering behind her. Anette who threw her in the face of a pale.
Flare is the one to exclaim, "Annie, are you fucking nuts?"
Meanwhile, Corpse and Monroe hold off their side of the bridge well. He's impressed with Monroe's ability to shoot with only one hand, although it is only a handgun, but he can tell she's tiring quicker as a result. He doesn't think it smart to mention it, knowing she'd only be insulted.
The pales rush at them from every angle, from behind cars and even atop the semi-truck though they know to check there now. Corpse continues pushing forward, the rest of them following behind him, and the pales come in slower numbers soon enough. It's still the most they've seen in one spot, and he finds it odd the way they've gathered, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting visitors.
"Ammo!" Monroe calls out.
"Gimme," Corpse calls back as he backtracks, taking her gun and giving him his so she isn't left unarmed. "About eight rounds left in that one," he mentions as they hand off.
They switch spots, Monroe covering him while he kneels down to reach into the backpack and grab a small box of ammo. He has to reload the glock one bullet at a time before moving ahead again.
When he stands back up, the first thing he's faced with is a much smaller shadow emerging from the fog than the others. He already knows what it is before he gets a view of its face. It's a fucking kid.
Running at them, rabid, bite marks littering its arm resembling a chew toy. There is no color in the kid's eyes, no awareness, no humanity. And still, Corpse fucking hesitates.
It wasn't that long ago he was eating cereal out of the box with one, in their old van.
"That's not a child anymore," he hears Monroe yell over the noise. "It's a monster. Shoot it."
A bit of the kid's brains fly off from the impact of the bullet.
They progress like this for the entire distance of the bridge. Once they're halfway, submerged in fog, the pales seem to stop coming. Eventually, the other side of the bridge is visible and with it, land. Corpse's shoulders don't lose their tension until he sees Elowen walking beside Flare, unhurt. She doesn't look for him, though.
They all run ahead and hurry off of the bridge.
Corpse would do the same, except he hears a racket coming from somewhere behind him and he doesn't want to leave anything to chance. But then there's a woman's voice, calling for help, and Corpse looks towards his group for only a second of hesitation before allowing himself to follow the noise.
There is something inexplicable drawing him to it.
It leads him to a blue and yellow metro bus with the words "W KINGSTON" across the pixelated screen in the front, labeling its destination. The windows and door are smeared with blood and he can make out handprints. There's banging coming from inside, and he hears the desperate woman.
Corpse rushes up the stairs of the bus, also slicked with blood, and has to step over multiple severed bodies to get inside. The air reeks of rot as a result. The sight he's met with disturbs him deeply.
The woman is laying across one of the seats, a hand gripping at the back of the bench in front of her, and a round man is looming over her body, moaning with its teeth sunken into her arm. The woman is screaming and crying at the same time, her face contorted in unimaginable pain, and Corpse doesn't waste another second before raising his gun, except he doesn't want to scare her.
His knife would be the better call. He hurries down the aisle, and the pale snaps its head towards him, ripping a chunk of her skin off with the movement. Corpse is wincing as blood sprays onto his face, and his eyes are mostly shut when he stabs the pale in the front of its throat.
He slips the blade back out and stabs it again through the back of the pale's head, for good measure, driving it upwards until only the hilt of the knife is visible. The pale gurgles, mouth falling away from the woman's skin, and the blade gets stuck a moment before coming back out. The pale slumps into the seat and he grabs it by its shoulders to haul its weight off of the woman.
She's still crying, groaning in pain and clutching her arm to her chest now. She won't look up, instead curling in on herself, and Corpse touches her shoulder lightly. "May I?"
Her crying pauses suddenly, and she lifts her head to look at him. "Corpse?"
His body flinches backward as he blinks at her. Hers is the last voice he had ever wanted to hear again. When she walked out his car over a year ago, she made sure to slam the door on her way out. It was a promise that she'd never come back. And yet there she is, underneath layers of dirt and blood and curly hair.
"Markie?"
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ok but what is elowen's job.........a mystery
it shall be revealed soon enough ;)
also MARKIE