Dwight wasn't kidding; the drive to "The Sanctuary" was no more than five minutes. The gang must've been traveling back from a run of some sort before they noticed your apparent trail of cigarettes. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you silently cursed. You peered out the van's window past the heads of the rugged team, and you noticed the towering monument in the distance. The van clunked and clattered toward the grounds of a dilapidated manufactory. The sight brought Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory to mind...only darker, creepier...your worst nightmare materialized. You noticed the barbed-wire-adorned gates shortly after that, where a horde of walkers were chained and impaled. Severed torsos with rotting heads and gnashing teeth eagerly greeted you as if to say, "Hello, there! Welcome to Hell!" It looked primitive and tribal. But out of all the forms of protection you'd seen utilized by other communities, you noted that this was the most effective method. Mask the scent of the living and scare the shit out of rival groups...that's pretty clever.
Sure, you were also scared shitless, but your inner musings helped brighten the situation.
The arrival was just as bumpy as the ride. The back doors of the van flew open and the men dragged you out by your hair. Briefly entertaining the idea of clawing their eyes out of their sockets, you soon realized that wouldn't be the wisest decision. "Keep up, sweetie!" Dwight yelled as he marched ahead of you. Entering the factory was like walking into the boy's locker room at school. The smell was reminiscent of sweaty socks and moldy showers. Boilers lined the cement walls, and pipes ran like a complex series of highways along the ceiling. Several men were milling about what looked like the cafeteria, shoving sludge in their faces and playing cards. Wasn't it a bit late to be having dinner? This must've been the night crew...which only meant there were more men lurking the grounds. Well-fortified and largely populated. Shit, you thought as the clusters of mean-looking bastards leered at you.
"Lookie here, boys! A new play-thing!" a hillbilly bully in flannel exclaimed. And the masses burst into cat-calls and wolf-whistles. Instinctively, you told them to fuck off as you ascended a rusty, metal staircase. "Oooohhhh! Kitty's got claws! Purr, kitty-kitty, purr!" If there is one thing you hated, it was being laughed at. The humiliation was enough to make you want to slit all their throats in their sleep. I'll show them who the real pussies are...
After leading you down a dimly lit hallway, far from the cafeteria, the men pushed you roughly next to Dwight in front of a solid, wooden door. "Alright, guys. Go ahead and get some grub. I'll take it from here," he commanded, and the rest of the men dispersed. "Better straighten out that hair, sweetie. Time to meet his highness." Dwight's comment was oozing with sarcasm. You got a feeling he wasn't too fond of this man you were about to see.
With a knock on the door, a deep voice bellowed from inside, "Who the fuck's there?"
"It's D! We found something on the way back from our run!" He turned to you and winked the eye that wasn't horribly scarred. You gritted your teeth in disgust...and then you heard slow, heavy footsteps approach the door.
Be cool. Just be cool, you attempted to calm yourself.
The door swung open, and a tall, leather-clad, older man stood within the frame. His vermilion scarf ignited red flames in his eyes as he looked at Dwight. But his fiery gaze shifted toward you--taking you all in. Your eyes traveled down his cargo pants to avert your glance, and you couldn't help but notice how powerfully his muscled legs met the floor. "Well this is a fucking surprise..." The last word almost sounded like a low, hungry growl. You glanced upward and met his gaze. A smug smile spread across his bearded face, and his dimples made creases in its salt and pepper coloring. His white row of teeth flashed in the dim light, and he looked like a wolf cornering a little lamb. In your peripheral vision, you noticed he held a baseball bat tight in his fist. Metal spiraled at the top: barbed wire. You thought you had an idea of what Satan looked like--the red man with goat's hooves, horns, and a three-pronged staff like you'd see in Looney Toons. But THIS man blasted that notion to smithereens. "Hi..." he began in a gravelly voice. "I'm Negan."
Better throw on some manners, because it looks like you're fucked, you thought as you audibly gulped.
"We found this one in the woods near the compound, about a mile out," Dwight started to explain. But Negan cut him off.
"This one probably has a fucking name, D," Negan growled. "And was it really necessary to tie her up like she's King-fucking-Kong?" He waved the bat toward your bonds. They'd already rubbed red rings around your wrists.
"She never gave us her name," Dwight answered, quickly untying the restraints.
"Because you never asked," you hissed, massaging the blood flow back into your fingers.
Negan's smile broadened. "Well that's a fucking proper way to begin the meet-'n-greet," he laughed. "What's your name, hon?"
You paused. One of your rules of survival was to never reveal your name. You feared that these communities would spread the word about a manipulative burglar who they could identify using your title. Locking your name away also prevented any sort of personal attachment. You only shared it with those you trusted. Unfortunately, all those people were dead. You were the lone, nameless survivor--fleeing from place to place and stealing people's shit.
"A little shy, aren't we..." Negan murmured as he stepped forward, looming over you.
"Come on, kid. Introduce yourself," Dwight demanded. "Maybe the outbreak fucked you so hard that you forgot your own name."
"Hey!" Negan shouted. "Never spew that filthy fucking shit in front of a lady. Especially, in front of me." His tone was hard as steel. "She just hasn't warmed up to us yet." Negan studied you with his light brown eyes and ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. "But you will, darlin.' You will." Negan raised his gloved hand and nearly brought it to your cheek.
Then Dwight interrupted with his sass. "That's not why she's here, sir. We brought her here for questioning. She's a fucking scout."
"I'm not a scout!" you snapped.
"She's a lying scout!" Dwight shouted you down.
Simply shaking his head and stroking his beard, Negan interjected, "That's enough, D. I got this covered. Run along, now. Lucille and I are going to have a talk with this fucking beauty." He raised the bat slightly as he spoke. You noticeably cringed, and he chuckled.
Dwight shot you with a glance as sharp as a scalpel and left you with the devil himself.
"Come on in, hon. Make yourself comfortable, because if what that fucker says is true, this'll be the last time you're ever fucking comfortable," Negan said with a voice like muffled thunder.
You took a deep breath and brushed past him into the room, feeling his heat radiate from beneath his black-leather jacket. It made your head a stormy whirlpool; beads of sweat clung to your upper lip. Wiping the palms of your hands against your jeans anxiously, you absorbed your surroundings. Bookshelves stood stuffed with all varieties of literary works against the walls. An old-world globe was positioned next to a massive wooden desk, cluttered with maps. A brown-leather sofa sat next to a low, glass coffee table with a bottle of Cognac on top--it looked unopened. Maybe it's just for show, you thought. A clean, crystal ash-tray was also placed neatly on the table. It's delicate design only reminded you how much you were craving a cigarette. When the door clicked shut, he ushered you to the sofa...Lucille in hand.
"Anything I could get you? Water? Food? You're looking like a bunch of pipe-cleaners, doll," he chuckled. "Let me know while I'm on my fucking feet."
I'm a suspicious adversary and he's trying to be a good host? What's with this guy? you mused. "No thank you, but I do have one request."
"Lay it on me," Negan answered lazily.
You carefully reached into your pocket and pulled out the last cigarette in your carton. "I couldn't help but notice the ash-tray. Mind if I smoke?"
Negan gave you a puzzled look, and then shrugged. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em."
You knew all you had to do was remain composed and tell the truth. A brief smoke would help with that. Everything's going to be okay.
Negan sunk into the cushion next to you on the sofa as you lit your cigarette. "Now that you've got your cancer-fix, it's time for a little game."
The suggestiveness in his voice caused you to cough as you exhaled the smoke. "A game?" you asked timidly.
"Yeah..." His eyes stroked the length of your body--from your lips to your breasts to your legs and back up the trail. "It's called twenty questions. It's pretty fucking simple. I ask, you answer, and you don't throw any questions at me until I'm fucking done. Understand?"
You nodded. "What would you like to know?"
Negan gripped Lucille tighter, and the sound of his vice-grip made your heart skip a beat. "You must not be a good listener. I said no fucking questions until I'm done. Fucking repeat that so I know you sure-as-shit understand it."
Your mouth was bone-dry, and you licked your lips before repeating, "No fucking questions until you're done." It wasn't until the words slipped out of your mouth that you realized you just swore at him. What the fuck have you done, you mindless fuck? you berated yourself.
You expected a swift backhand or worse after what you'd just said. Preemptively, you flinched and your hands balled into fists.
But Negan...he cracked up!
He was laughing and holding his stomach before he set down his peacemaker Lucille. For some reason, couldn't rip your eyes away from his smile.
"You're fucking adorable," he chuckled and laid his hand on your shoulders in an attempt to relax them. They were raised nearly to your ears with tension. "Time to play," he murmured. Your shoulders lowered, and you took another drag of your cig.
Enough of this pussying out. Just don't fuck up.