It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood! Decomposing walker-flesh was littered for miles in front of you, and the smell was nothing short of lovely. Thankfully, the crisp touch of Autumn made the air chilly enough to keep the aroma of human (well, walker) rot to a minimum. The summers were brutally pungent over the last two years, and you were certain you'd lose your sense of smell by next Spring. The sun cast a golden hue over a field in your path...must've been five or six o'clock. You trudged through what appeared to be the remnants of an apple orchard, and you picked whatever looked edible from the branches. Not like this was a "most succulent beauty contest." This was the apocalypse, after all. Apple after apple, you filled your bag to the brim. By this time, the sky was shifting from blue to violet...dusk was approaching. Hurriedly, you sprinted towards a patch of forest that lined the perimeter of the overgrown orchard. The fallen leaves swirled about your feet with every stride as you reached a massive maple tree. Scrambling up the knotty bark, you climbed onto a sturdy branch and removed a camouflage blanket and rope from your bag.
"Harvest is done for the day...though, it's a shame. All these apples and no peanut butter," you thought out loud. Since the outbreak, you'd grown accustomed to seeking refuge in trees and talking to yourself.
There was a sudden, grotesque gargling that approached your maple tree as you were tying your torso to the branch. A couple of walkers stumbled like gelatin scarecrows through the forest. You simply sighed and pulled out your .44 caliber and shot each one right between the eyes...or what was left of their eyes. Their skeletal bodies crumbled and fell into the leaves with a crunch. "Bang, bang, motherfuckers," you muttered. These encounters were as common as swatting flies, at this point. Hell, the last time you came across a couple of biters, you yawned before you drew your handgun and sent their brains spurting out of their skulls. What was once terrifying had become as dull as a Church pot-luck.
"Better scavenge for more ammo tomorrow," you mumbled as you sifted through your bag. Pulling out a carton of Camel Blues, you held it to your ear and shook the contents. Sounded like two or three were left. "And cigs...as always." Lighting a cigarette and pulling the blanket around your shoulders, you nestled into the crook of the tree branch. With every exhale, the smoke caressed the sky as it slowly turned from purple to royal blue. Stars speckled the horizon and lit the tops of the trees. The wind was gentle tonight, and there was hardly a sound aside from your own breathing. These were the moments you loved most. Alone with the night. Although, since Summer had come to an end, you started to miss the warm breeze and the fireflies. The blissful thought made your eyelids heavy.
Before you drifted into the arms of sleep, a distant rustling jolted you into action. Drawing your gun, you scanned the area--but your vision was shrouded by darkness. The only thing you could see was your breath floating like smoke in the frigid air. As soon as you locked your aim on the rustling, the sound ceased. It was too far away to be mingling at the trunk of your temporary "bedroom." You tucked your gun away as your heart rate slowed to its normal pace. Probably a damn deer, you thought. Shifting on your branch, you lit another cigarette to calm yourself. That was the moment when you heard movement like tires on gravel and brush. The sound began to crescendo. That's not an animal... You swiftly untied the rope that held you to the branch, tossed the blanket to the ground, threw on a ski-mask, and scurried down the maple at a squirrel's speed. When you reached the bottom, the whistling started. Ominous whistling noises shrilled from the vehicle approaching you like a thousand sirens. You were outnumbered. But you kept your weapon at the ready, utilizing the bough of the tree as a shield. Headlights beamed abruptly and nearly blinded you. Shit fuck shit fuck! Your thoughts were frantic, but you remained steady. No amount of panic could save you.
The vehicle halted and the whistling grew piercing. Tall shadows exited what looked like a black van and surrounded your position. The silhouettes of the large figures closed in around you like a wolf pack stalking its prey. For a moment, you wished these seven or eight figures were walkers and not men. You could handle the undead, but the living were substantially more horrific. The engine was cut and the whistling died down. A lean shadow slid out of the van with a glock in his fist and walked toward you slowly.
"Hey there, stranger!" the man called menacingly. "Why don't you put that gun down and we'll have a chat!"
You stood in silence with your hands gripping the weapon relentlessly. "Not until I know what the hell is going on," you said sternly. Your voice deepened in these situations to mask your feminine tone.
"Just want to talk, that's all," the man responded calmly. "How about you step forward...let's have a look at ya."
Reluctantly, you lowered your gun and stepped out from behind the maple into the clearing. The headlights cast a spotlight on you.
"How did you find me?" you managed to get the words through a terrified lump in your throat.
"You mean aside from the smoke signal and the cookie-crumb trail of cigarette butts?" His condescending tone made you seethe. You kept a record of not getting captured for a year, and thought you were good at it by now. Guess I was fucking wrong. This guy's a damn good tracker.
The figure strode forward, and the light revealed his scrawny frame as well as his scarred face. He appeared to be terribly burnt; half of his disposition looked like it was melting off his skull. Perhaps you might have mistaken him for a fresh walker if he hadn't spoken a word. "What's with the mask, man? You robbin' a bank? Haven't you heard? Money don't mean jack shit no more!" he jested, and the other men erupted in laughter. "Quit the death-grip on that thing and let's talk."
What have I got to lose? I pose no threat. What the hell do they want that I could possibly give them? you reasoned. Lowering the weapon, you held your hands up.
"There we go...much better," he jeered. "The name's Dwight. These guys here are The Saviors. You've probably heard of us."
Quite frankly, you never heard of any group called The Saviors, so you shook your head slightly. "Can't say I'm familiar. Enlighten me," you responded.
This Dwight fellow looked surprised. "Well, that would explain why you're trespassing on our turf. Probably didn't know any better."
For a second, you thought he'd let you go for the misunderstanding. "Unless you're a scout!"
The group of men enveloped you in a circle of mischievous smiles.
"I assure you, I'm not a scout, I work for no one but myself, and I didn't realize I was in your territory. I apologize." You attempted to keep the apprehension in your voice on the low, replacing it with firm conviction.
"Oh, the kid's sorry," Dwight laughed. The men chuckled and raised their weapons. "Can't say a sorry is good enough. Hell, I don't believe a word you just said!"
"I don't expect you to. But I am on my own. I have no possessions of value and I only have enough food for myself. Just trying to survive like the rest of you."
A hard, mean grin spread across his mutilated face. "We don't have to survive anymore. We're sure as hell thriving. Either you're playing dumb or you're actually dumb as shit." He approached you, smacking the gun from your hand and raising his glock to your temple. You stayed planted, holding your breath and listening to your own heart pound in your ears. "But the only way to find out is if you come with us." With a swipe of his other hand, he removed the ski-mask from your head. Your long hair fell around your shoulders, and you could hear the sudden muttering coming from the men around you. Well, now they know.
"A fucking chick?!" Dwight exclaimed in disbelief. "Oh this is too good!"
Before you could open your mouth to battle his misogyny, you were swept up into the arms of the two men standing behind you and taken to the van. All you could managed to shout was, "I'm not a cripple! Let me go!" But your words were drowned out by the chuckles and crude remarks of the burly members of Dwight's posse.
They confiscated your gun and your survival bag, and tossed you into the back of the van like you were no more than a rag-doll. You hoped to any supernatural being that this wouldn't turn into a gang-bang. Of course, you've escaped situations similar to this one before, but the men were few and ill-prepared. These guys were different. Just as one of the burly beasts began to bind your hands, the engine came to life and the drive commenced.
"It's a short trip to The Sanctuary. So if any of you pricks start singing '99 Bottles of Beer,' I'm gonna kick your sorry asses!" Dwight shouted from the driver's seat. "And if any of you get all fresh with the fresh meat back there, you'll have to answer to Negan. Got it?"
The collection of thugs mumbled in obedience.
Negan? you pondered. What kind of name is that?