saint of days

darya volkov, 33, just outside Oryol, leader of the Days point total: 547

[daryavolkov]

ofliliu:

Even with the most settled people – the ones who were stoic and war-worn and had become accustomed to the nature of this world on the whole almost as soon as it had come to pass – would make motions and get jumpy at the unknown. It’s the nature of humans as a species and the way that most people found comfort in themselves. It was easy to forget your humanity when you were bred for war, but most humans hadn’t been born into it so much as thrust and adapted, so Li Liu knew that the motion she saw was likely that of someone at least partially fresh within the nuclear fallout.

She still didn’t move for a span of beats, even the breath she exhaled through the snow and ash to kick up flurries was nigh paced in time with the shift of the breeze that whipped through the landscape – devoid of trees or anything to break the constant, chilling whip of wind – and only out of necessity for that. She knew to move would give away her position, so she had to make subtle motions, neck deep in snow and other detritus as she tried to make slow shifts forward through the snow.

A figure could be made out, but barely (likely partially thanks to her one eye, though she’d never admit it,) and if it had been anyone but her it might have gone as unnoticed as she had. There had been a flicker of their gaze that had twitched their head in her direction, and she knew she had not been so subtle as she had wanted. No, the wrong motion and she’d likely be shot, and it would be a hell of a thing to hide her position when her blood started to paint the grey landscape in crimson.

There was a choice to be made: continue to shamble on and try to get closer to asses the target, and likely be confused for a walker, or offer temporary surrender to the situation so they could figure out if they were in need of such confrontation. 

A shift of her fingers into her bulky coat – its outer layers were now covered in a thin layer of gross, murky wetness from the combination of snow, dirt, and ash – and pulled free the thing she always had prepared for these moments. Surrender was not weakness, especially when you were just as trained in hand-to-hand and could disarm most opponents without breaking a sweat, but still…

The flag raised slowly from the snow bank, but only after she’d rolled a bit to the side and angled her arm just right so that if they’d tried to take a shot at her body they’d get snow… or her arm… a thing she could tend to better than a shot to the head.

It was a matter of waiting after that, her breath held to not shift the snow that covered her torso now and kept her safely from being found, by either her new found friend or any walkers that were becoming alerted to the sounds of motion that they were both making, no matter how subtle.

White flags had been designed to be easy to see against the stark colors of a battlefield, but the greying fabric against the sooted snow made it take longer than it should have for Darya to understand just what the movement they were seeing through the scope of their sniper rifle actually was: a sign of surrender, a silent distant message not to shoot.

They didn’t lower the rifle, but they flicked the safety back on: they wanted to be able to see what they were walking into through the magnified scope, try to get a sense of whoever it was behind the white flag and the movement before they approached. They wouldn’t shoot, of course -- walkers weren’t smart enough to throw up signs of surrender, and they weren’t in the practice of shooting living, breathing people, no matter how dangerous, if they could avoid it. But they also wouldn’t walk into danger without being as prepared as they possibly could. 

They scanned the area around the flag, saw no sign of a second or third person alongside whoever had raised the flag, and made a quick risk-assessment before deciding that it was likely nothing they couldn’t handle.

They took a moment, closed their eyes, and let themself trust their life to faith.

They raised the gun, hands up, to show they wouldn’t shoot.

They moved forward.

Trudging through the snow was slow-moving, especially as they tried to keep their movements from drawing any unwanted attention in case anyone but this person was in the area, anyone not quite so keen to surrender. Ideally, they’d approach the person, touch base, swear not to shoot one another in the back, and move on. If the person needed help, they’d do what they could to provide it. Hopefully, soon, they would be out of the snow.

[ofliliu-blog]

Location: Somewhere Outside the Ukraine Time: A year ago, roughly; midday.

She never could tell if it was the fault of nuclear winter or just the general climate of the Ukraine that left everything coated in a layer of snow and grime; perhaps it was still the falling ash from the skies that seemed almost set ablaze when everything had gone so south that was now filling their lungs every day, and yet she stood beneath the icy waft and seemed almost at peace, and for whatever reason, completely concealed.

Generally she favoured darker colours, but both the climate and terrain of her current position lent themselves to lighter colours: greys and whites now wrapped around her body, a tighter layer beneath, followed by a looser cover, followed by furs. She looked like a slight form of bear as she trudges through the snow, her dark hair hidden far beneath the ushanka that rested along her crown, and she stalked through the snow with little tread, careful to only step where people had been before.

The crumbling buildings around her looked like teeth in a broken woman’s mouth, all different colours and shapes and sad as they peeked through the destruction that surrounded them, but the city felt dead as well, not a breath rustling the streets as she looked about for a proper place to bunker down for the night.

She could rely on the kindness of strangers, right? It was rarely true, and generally you had to hope to find a place before someone else did and set up a perimeter so you could keep it to yourselves. Thieves and vagabonds were the lifeblood of the world gone wrong, and though she had more than enough experience to make even the most burly man cry, she didn’t seek a fight that night, and instead sought food and shelter.

A sudden snap through the air brought her down to bear in the snow, her eyes barely visible among the ichor that crowded the streets with the snow and the filth; was it human or was it something else? She didn’t care. Until they stepped into view and she could see, she considered them an enemy regardless of their life.

Loath as she was to draw attention to her position, her fingers gently rustled beneath the snow and deeper, the gloves keeping her from freezing through but doing little for her ability to actually feel the texture, and grabbed a rock. Her wrist gently flicked deep beneath the snow to not disturb her own hiding spot and send the rock skidding across to clack against a sidewalk nearby.

If what were there were dead, it would move immediately towards the idea of a moving meal, if it were not..? It’d be cautious, and so too would she. The dead were easier to deal with than the living; people frowned upon killing the living.

[daryavolkov]

It had been a long time since Darya had seen snow, and they weren’t entirely prepared for it as the Days moved northwards. There were no seasons, in fallout like this, they knew, and it was pointless to think of this as winter, especially when there would never be any kind of spring, marked by growth and new warmth and renewal, ever again, but they found themself unable to think of it as winter anyway, trying to locate their journey against old measurements of time, wondering distantly if this meant it was February, or December, if in another world Christmas might have been near.

None of that mattered, they had to remind themself. This wasn’t the old world. Seasons had no meaning; months had no meaning. Weather had no meaning except where it was an obstacle in their progression towards a goal. They’d hunkered down behind a bank of snow, trying to get a sense for the lay of the land before they turned back to camp, charting in their mind a pathway for the Days to follow when they pressed onwards tomorrow, despite the snow. 

They’d never liked the snow. Tolerated it, but hated the way that moving through it made them feel sluggish. It muffled all sound, sure, but not being able to hear movement around you was worse, somehow, than when your potential enemies could hear every sound you made. Darya knew how to hide their footsteps. They didn’t know how to hear movement in the snow. 

But--

               --clack.

Maybe sound wouldn’t be such a problem, they thought, the sound of something hitting concrete nearby, and their head whipped to look as they automatically flipped the safety off of their rifle. They hadn’t seen any of the telltale signs of walkers nearby, but it could have been a scavenger, or a chance meeting. But their gaze found nothing, where the noise had come from, a flash of movement so brief they were almost positive they’d imagined it, and then nothing, and then stillness.

Still, they would be wary. Still, their finger hovered over the trigger of their sniper rifle, which they propped up atop the snowbank they were settled behind, and looked down the scope, hoping to see something that their eyes alone had missed. 

[daryavolkov]

rosalesernesto:

Hands still raised, he ventures closer to them. So far his plan seemed to be going well, both him and Loba were unharmed, and the leader had yet to raise any weapon to him. Still, he decides to further on with caution, fearful not to upset the delicate peace that remained between the three of them. “Si, she is stubborn dog. But good dog.”, he assures. Taking note of the fact he still hadn’t been shot or maimed yet, he carefully lowers his hands. If he wanted to earn their trust, he was first going to have to show he could trust them as well. 

With his hands now free he steps closer to Loba, bending down to give her a loving scratch behind the ears as a compliment to her job well done. Although “job” was hardly the term, if he’d allowed it he could easily see the canine trying to spend the rest of the day playing with whomever she could find. “I am sorry if she bothered you”, he adds, standing up to fully face the leader. When their eyes meet his he smiles, genuinely this time. He does have to admit he can see why so many have flocked to them. Their aura has a pleasant calm to it, a rarity anymore. Much like Loba’s he supposes. 

Reminding himself of his job, he breaks eye contact with them to have a quick look around his surroundings. He scans the treeline around them, as if he were looking for another traveler. When he sees none he looks to them again, this time more curiously. “Are you alone out here?”, he asks. Realizing his wording could be translated in a more malicious context he tries again. “Do not take that wrong way. I am only curious. It is not often we run into people alone- not lately anyway.” 

For now he decides to keep his knowledge of Stonewall and their meeting to himself. He did not want them to think he’d been tracking them down, like he had been. This whole scenario would run more smoother if this appeared as a chance encounter, or a good bit of divine fate considering who he was talking to. 

     ‘It’s no bother,’ they say, and toss the stick a little further this time, in the direction of the man, for the dog to run and catch. They watch the dog, for a moment, zip off in a flash and dart after the flying stick, jump just off the ground to catch it expertly between her sharp teeth. She’s in good shape, better than most of the people Darya’s seen lately, and they’re not sure how this man has managed to keep her that way, but for the moment it feels uncharitable to question it.

They turn their attention, instead, to his other question -- always the question, every time the question, the thing every single traveler on the road wants and needs to know for their own safety, and they feel no compulsion to lie; they rarely do. If this man and his well-kept dog want to try to storm the Days’ camp for supplies, he’ll be met by an unwelcome fate. The Days are wary, after all, when their leader is out.

      ‘I’m not alone, no,’ they answer, sensing no hostility from him, no reason to fear the question. ‘There are a group of us, seven others.’

There are more details they could give; usually, they way the situation carefully in deciding how much information to give -- do they tell the stranger their numbers? their purpose? Never their position or their trajectory, not excepting extreme circumstances. But there are some who warrant an explanation of their moral code, the democratic way they live, so foreign to most travelers who have escaped or abandoned another group -- most groups, these days, are ruled by tyrants.

But the man before them, well... they haven’t quite read him yet. Not fully. They aren’t quite sure what he wants or what he needs.

[daryavolkov]

colonelstonewall:

The familiar gesture was comforting, but being looked at so closely, when there were so many things he was holding back, gave him the urge to avert his gaze. That was an impulse that he had long been broken of, though, instead allowing them the glance over without any words.

No matter what his worries were, no matter how concerned he was for how things were progressing, what was to come, there was no way to deny just how much they all cared for the well being of each other, especially Darya. It was clear that they were doing exactly to him what he had just done to them. It was a good day, though, the baseline of aches and pain that he had become used to over the years, no changes recently, the rest having helped slow things for now it seemed. He only hoped that the dozens of thoughts he was having weren’t written as clearly on his face as they looked at him as it felt.

Their words gave no indication of that, though, so he put that concern out of his mind for now. There was too much else to think of as they prepared to move on, after all. He raised an eyebrow, but merely nodded. It didn’t matter if he disagreed with that particular sentiment. Whatever helped them feel capable of doing what needed to be done as they moved forward was their own business. And something as simple as faith wasn’t anything to write home about.

It was where it got a little more intense than just thoughts and prayers that had him worried, always had him worried.

But for now there were plenty of more concrete things to focus on, preparing everyone for travel, searching for more to add to their numbers, keeping everyone safe and healthy as possible. And he’d be there to make sure as many of them made it as far as they possibly could, no matter what it meant for him.

[daryavolkov]

rosalesernesto:

It had only been a couple days after his chance encounter with the second-in-command of the Days faction. An encounter, which he might add, went fairly well considering the fact he’d walked into it completely blind and unprepared. It is the success of this meeting, and the rush of adrenaline it gave him, that leads Ernesto to tempt his luck with the next person up in the faction’s chain of command- the very leader themself. Unlike before, he does take some time to strategize for this particular run-in, knowing full well he couldn’t get by solely on his good looks and a thick accent. No, this particular egg would be a bit tougher to crack, at least in the amount of effort it would involve. Through the stray bits of information he’d gathered from the random traveler, Darya would more than welcome a new addition to their group- that was if he could prove himself trustworthy. It was proving that trust that would be the trickiest part, especially in a place where who you trusted could turn into a life or death situation.  

When he reaches the patch of forest that held the growing faction, Ernesto finally settles on his plan of action. If he wanted to do this right, really do this right, then he knew he was going to have to use his most trusted of weapons- Loba. Risking her safety was something he never took lightly, she was not like most other dogs those days. She was not feral, her formative years were spent getting fed regularly by gentle hands. She could act mean if she needed to, but when faced with any real danger she would be an all too easy target. Despite the risk, he decides to trust his judgement, and put as much trust in them that he hoped to eventually earn in return. To his fortune, when he first spots the infamous leader they appear to be completely alone, no one near them to warn them or harm Loba before she can make her intentions known. It is his best and more than likely only shot at attempting this before the Days move out of the area. 

With time not on his side, he hastily finds a bit of cover on a nearby hillside, far enough so that he couldn’t easily be spotted, but not so much so that he couldn’t keep an eye on the situation as it unfolded. Quickly freeing his crossbow from where it hung hooked to his bag, he loads a single bolt into it, hoping he won’t have to use it, but feeling more at ease with the extra sense of security it gave him. “Loba,” he whispers and clicks his tongue twice, effectively calling her to where he lay crouched behind a large tree. “You see them? Down there?”, he asks her in his native tongue, pointing in Darya’s direction, “Go say hi.” After a quick kiss to the top of her head, Loba bounds down the hill, disappearing into a bit of brush that lay between him and the faction leader. 

With bated breath Ernesto simply waits, watching Darya’s form closely through the collection of dead branches and dried leaves that obstructed part of his view. As the time wears on, and still Loba does not appear, a sinking feeling begins to grow in the pit of his stomach. Fearing the worst, he goes to stand to look for his companion, when suddenly she appears out of the brush and in front of Darya, tail wagging expectantly as she trots over to them. But what was that in her mouth? Leaning forward, Ernesto narrows his eyes, trying to see just what the canine had with her. When she drops what visibly appears to be a stick he has to immediately cover his mouth to hold back the laughter, because only Loba would take “Go say hi” as “Go make yourself a new best friend.” 

Getting too much of a kick out of the entire scene, he allows Loba to have her fun with the leader, giving the two of them more than enough time to get well acquainted with each other. It is only when his knees start to ache from crouching for so long when he decides to break up the fun and get down to why he was even there in the first place. Returning his crossbow to its unloaded and secure resting place, he begins heading down the hill. As he steps into Darya’s field of vision he automatically raises his hands up, assuring her he meant no harm. “I think I am replaced”, he chuckles, calling out to them in Russian.“But I thank you. There are many who would look at her like food and not friend.” 

They aren’t sure what to do with the stick, as the dog sniffs their hand and seems to find them satisfactory, wags its tail once and walks itself in a circle in front of them before bowing to touch its nose to the stick again. It cannot, they think, be asking them to play fetch. But they pick the stick up anyway, cautious, crouching to reach it instead of bending down so they can still keep an eye on their surroundings, and they toss the stick up in the air, and the dog catches it expertly between its teeth, wags its tail once more.

The man who comes forward to fetch the dog isn’t a surprise; it had been clear, from the way the dog had behaved, from the shine of its coat and the willingness with which it sniffed their hand and let them touch it, that it was a well looked-after thing. A pet, or a companion. But Darya is surprised by the nonchalance with which he approaches them. 

For a moment, they have another uncharitable thought about traps, but they silence it; better to give the man the benefit of the doubt, until he gives them any real reason to believe he means them harm. He is not the picture they would have expected of someone trying to hurt them -- his Russian sounds honest, his eyes look sincere. He sounds-- genuinely relieved that they haven’t hurt his dog.

And the dog -- she, he had said, and Darya makes the mental adjustment -- she is pressing her snout into Darya’s open hand, a slobbering gesture of enjoyment around the bulk of the stick in her mouth, tail still wagging. It is hard, even for someone wary, to mistrust an animal that means them no harm. If they were to be prey, the dog would have let them know, by now. 

     “She hardly gave me a choice,” Darya answers, with half a smile, cowed slightly by the dog at their side. The dog drops the stick, again, and Darya hesitates before crouching to pick it up again, eyes on the man, but the crossbow on his person isn’t in his hand -- he is not, it appears, prepared to attack, at least not instantly. 

[daryavolkov]

zoyasokolov:

Zoya wondered if she could take on the group. If it was large enough they would be carrying enough supplies between them to keep the twins fed for weeks. She could trail behind them as they made their way back to their camp, stalk her in the shadow like a big cat looking for game. It would be a bold move for her, she was either vulture or chose the route of coordinated ambush, but her belly groaned in protest, shrinking day by day.

“Are there many of you?”  

Maybe she wouldn’t need to the shadows to hide her, maybe she could come with them, wait for them to welcome her to the fold. They could come to accept her just in time to feel the bite of her knife at their throats as she took from them. Wasn’t she best suited as an actress? She could reveal herself slowly, soften to a charming tenderness. There was Yuri, they had never done anything more than a job on the road, a shakedown instead of a long con. She wondered if she would be able to leave him for that long.

“Privet,” she replied, in a long forgotten tradition of etiquette. “I am Zoya.” She bowed her head in a greeting. Her brother liked to give fake names, but she saw no reason to it. The world was more populated by the dead than the living, the weight of a name would be carried by so few now.

     “It is good to meet you, Zoya,” they said, nodding their head in return. 

The bottle in their hands filled quickly with the murky water -- not clear, not clean, but free of oil at least, they saw as they lifted it to the light to examine it. Dirt, or something, floating within it, but at least it was still a natural color, almost clear, with none of the oil-slick shimmer of the water they’d come across further downstream. They set the jug on the ground beside them, reached into their bag for another one.

     “There are seven of us, right now. We are hunting walkers.”

It was always difficult to tell what effect the truth would have, when it came to traveling in a group. Large groups scared people -- what should have been a sign of safety was, to anyone not within the group, something to be feared more often than not. Even with their group so far away from the river, even with the trek they had made to get here, it wouldn’t have been surprising for Zoya to react as if six others were preparing to come out of the tree line surrounding them and slaughter her or rob her blind. There were enough groups that operated that way, too many that saw the advantage of size as a way to harm others, rather than as a way to protect themselves. 

But Darya had always insisted on honesty, transparency. There was no use for lies, at the end of the world. 

[daryavolkov]

colonelstonewall:

It wasn’t a surprise that their response was to bring up the time they had all been resting, and it was true enough. Every last one of them had spent the last two weeks building up their strength again, recovering from any lingering wounds, getting as close to well-rested and well-fed as was possible considering the circumstances, only taking scouting and scavenging missions that were light of load and more out of opportunity than necessity. He was also well aware that there was no amount of rest that would likely help what they were feeling, if it was as he suspected. Still, it felt wrong not to offer the suggestion, even if only so they would know that he could sense the unease.

He had been trained to notice when a soldier wasn’t quite on their game, after all, to make certain everyone in his camp was doing all they could to have the best chances of succeeding at their mission on surviving, and that habit had carried over into his role in the Days. There was no one else, after all, who was going to be telling their leader to ease off it. That was his job, even if it was a fruitless one.

The only thing he could think of to help, since he knew there was no way he was going to convince them to take the final two days at the compound and rest all they could, was to find someone who maybe could help them, in a more real way. It was unfortunate, that that person happened to be God only knew where, sent out on a mission there was no way of knowing would be successful or not. He made a mental note to have a sit down and try to figure out the route Gabe might’ve taken towards Moscow, see if there might be a way to look for any signs of him, bring him back before they headed off, or even while they were on the road.

His attention was drawn out of his thoughts, though, as Darya closed the space between them again, and bent down, taking his hands in their own in a familiar gesture of reassurance. The gesture, the look in their eyes as he met them, it did offer some amount of comfort, if not in exactly the way they meant it. Even he couldn’t deny the calming effect they were able to have on people, especially when they did this. It made it very tempting to believe their words, despite everything. In any case, there was no more reason to try to convince them otherwise now, and worrying was only going to make everything harder for all of them.

Stonewall nodded, giving their hands a squeeze, as if to say that he’d accept what they said. “That’s right. Right as rain,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly, as it always did when they repeated one of the English idioms he had taught them. “We’ve come this far, haven’t we? Can’t let any of it stop us now.”

They let their hands linger on his, for a moment, and then brushed an invisible speck of dust off of his shoulder, looking him over for a moment as if to ascertain that everything was right as rain with him, too, that he wasn’t so caught up in taking care of the rest of them that he’d forgotten to take care of himself. 

He looked well, all things considered. No worse for wear than anyone else. And he looked determined, as he looked at them, calm and strong, as strong as anyone could look in the apocalypse. As if something was on his mind but, then, they were sure something was on his mind. He was always thinking through the practicalities, the reality of the situation, always making plans and putting together puzzles, always keeping things in order, like by keeping every detail in order he could account for some of the disorder around them, inside them, and keep it all at bay.

     “Da,” they answered him. “No turning back, now. It is in God’s hands, now, and I trust that He is guiding us.” 

They stood, again, finally, taking one last look to make sure they weren’t leaving anything behind on the floor where they’d been sitting, patting their pockets quickly as if to make sure they were still loaded up with the useful scraps and sentimental objects they kept there, filling the deep pockets of the worn green jacket with a comforting kind of clutter, a reassurance that even when they didn’t have everything, they had something, and that God would always provide. 

It would be hard, for all of them, to leave this place, which had been so good a home to them for three long weeks, but it was time to get on the road. It was time, now, to go.

[daryavolkov]

maksvoloshyn:

Fear had ruled him since the day the bombs fell, and he hated what it had turned him into. He’d used to be so proud, so stubborn, his head had never bowed under the discipline his grandfather had tried to rain down on him, but now he spent his every day bowing and scraping, scared to look anyone in the eye, lest they take that as disrespect, lest they cast him out on his own. There was a hate steadily growing in him, but it was impotent, useless, would do nothing but rot and fester in him. In this world it was better the devil you know.

It shook him, to see someone who didn’t seem stooped under that burden. Who could have taken anything from him in exchange for his life, and wanted nothing. Who seemed better than him in every conceivable way, so different that it didn’t even seem aspirational—he couldn’t imagine himself in their shoes, couldn’t imagine himself free from the horrible, stinking fear he carried around with him.

And then, on top of the one that Maks already carried, they placed another burden. One that he could tell would weigh on him, come back to haunt him whenever he tried not to look a stranger in the eyes before or after their group left them fallen in their path. We wouldn’t have killed them if they didn’t fight, his own voice would say to himself, say again to Mykola in the dark of night. If you have the chance, one day, to save a stranger’s life, I hope that you will take it, he’d hear after, and know that he hadn’t. That he couldn’t.

What a fucking joke, he thought, bitterly, trying to muster up the anger, push it outward instead of letting it reach into his own chest. Couldn’t they tell that he was never going to save anyone? That he would never be the one to choose whether someone lived or died, that he would just drag himself along, belly to the ground, do everything he could to make sure it wasn’t him who died? That that, for him, was the best he could do.

He didn’t want to feel guilty for a test he hadn’t failed yet, even though he knew that he would when the time came. And so he resolved to do what he could to leave this interaction with some pride as well as with his life, even though things like pride and dignity felt like they were in short fucking supply these days. “Let me help with what’s left of the walkers before I go,” he said, tilting his chin upwards, make it seem like he wouldn’t be swayed from this one request. “Burn them. I can do that, at least.”

They could sense the resistance in him, a burn something like anger at their words, but they let it wash over them impassively; what he did with his life, what he wanted to do, didn’t affect them, much. He could pass out of their life, soon, and they would hope that they had done something good for him, hope that he might carry that out into the world, but if he didn’t, it didn’t change what they had done. It didn’t discourage them from doing it again, and again, and again, from wanting to save people and help people and do anything they could to make the world a little less dark. 

His request was a surprise, though, one they let wash over them quickly as they made the decision to grant his request. 

The Days made quick progress, in ambushes like this. In all likelihood, they had already swept most of the area, set fire to most of the remains in just the time it had taken Darya to have this conversation. But they could tell, from the look of half-wounded pride in his eyes, that he wanted to do something concrete to repay them, and they couldn’t begrudge him that, not if it would help.

They hand slipped into the pocket of their worn green coat, fingers parsing over a few spare bullets, a few scraps of cloth, the neatly wrapped cross they kept there, before finally settling on a small book of matches, half used and worn from touch, from rubbing their fingers along it thoughtlessly, like worry beads or a Catholic rosary. They pulled it from their pocket, counted the matches quickly, and then passed it to his hands before standing. 

     “We would appreciate it,” they said, voice sounding truly grateful. Every bit of help counted, even when their people could have taken care of it themselves. 

[daryavolkov]

colonelstonewall:

He always felt better about things once they had formed something of a plan, as much of a plan as was possible when they were constantly heading into the unknown, the landscape they faced every shifting. And having a concrete mission, even if it was self-imposed, made him feel like he was actually doing something actively to make sure they had the best chance at doing what they were setting out to accomplish.

Stonewall nodded as they spoke, knowing there were plenty of things that they likely needed, if they wanted to make it. He was already making a mental list of what he knew they needed, things to look out for as he scouted, as they tucked away the sewing kit, and went to stand up.

There was that slight pause as soon as they stood, a very familiar pause, as it was something he himself had been feeling more and more lately, despite how well-rested and well-fed they’d all been lately, in relative terms. It was a common thing, worse in some of them over others, but it seemed like things were just getting worse for most of them. No matter how much Darya believed they were a messiah of some sort, they were still only human, in reality, and the effects of the years of all of this didn’t care if you thought you were a god or not. 

It was near impossible for him to tell how bad it was for them, but he had a strong feeling that they were keeping as much from him on that front as he was keeping from them, maybe even more. He had long stopped complaining of what he felt, and he knew that they were the same, not one to want to give anyone an unnecessary reason to worry, when this was inevitable for most of them. But it was impossible not to care about someone after going through so much together, and he wondered just how far it went, for them, was tempted to ask if there was any small thing he might do to relieve some of that suffering.

Instead, though, he kept on topic, only offering a hint of what he was considering.

“You should rest up, let someone else take inventory and report back to you. We’re going to need all the strength we can get when we leave; every last chance to rest is crucial,” he said with a little nod, trying, and perhaps failing, to sound as if that was a completely impartial suggestion. “Whoever takes inventory can let me know what it looks like we need, and I’ll keep an eye out while I’m scouting, send a few others out, too, to scavenge.”

     “I’ve rested for two weeks,” they said, keeping the weariness out of their voice. It was true-- they felt better rested now than usual; the flash of vertigo, the vague dizziness, it didn’t go away no matter how much they slept, or how little they travelled. It was different than that, something deep-seated and unavoidable, that came and went as it pleased regardless of what they did to cope with it. Maybe if Gabriel were here, he would have had a solution, or a balm at least to push it away when they needed most to be capable of anything. But they didn’t know where he was, just then, somewhere between here and Moscow, somewhere far away and unknown and, hopefully, safe.

They hadn’t done much scouting or traveling in the past weeks, had mostly kept to the base fixing things and sorting things and making do with what they could while they sent others out on missions. If they kept up like that, they would stop being a leader and start being a tyrant: their position of leadership worked because they were just as willing to work themself to the bone as anyone else, if not more so. It would be a good show of faith, to be able to be productive today, before breaking the news to the others that they would be leaving this safe place soon.

They closed the gap between themself and where he was, crouching back down to get onto his level, and took his hands. cupped gently in their own, a reverent kind of gesture, and a familiar one for anyone who spent time with them. Like, in touching his hands, they were holding something precious. They waited for him to look them in the eye, and then they spoke, again, their voice even and calm and benevolent. 

     “I’ll be alright, Colonel,” they said, nodding slightly as they said it, as if an affirmation that they were telling the truth. And then, falling into unfamiliar English yet again, as if the sound of it might convince him not to read too much into their words, “Right as rain, da?”

[daryavolkov]

location: about a kilometer outside the Days camp time: early evening, present      ( @rosalesernesto )

Wild animals were frequent, in the woods and wastelands around the cities the Days tended to camp out in. More frequent than other humans, most of the time -- animals were more adaptable, better suited to surviving the harsh conditions, and predators too vicious to be hunted for meat weren’t a rare sight, the second you left the outskirts of an abandoned town. 

Wolves were common. Dogs, thin and starving and mangy, were only moderately less so.

Only, the dog standing in front of Darya wasn’t starving. It wasn’t emaciated, like they would have expected from something feral and ferocious and dangerous to their own well-being. No, it was-- honestly, better looked-after than the strays the nuns at the orphanage had fed, sometimes, on scraps when they had been a child. Its coat fairly sleek, unmatted, the animal was clearly being looked after by someone, but here it was, alone wagging its tail in their direction.

It had to be a trap, they thought, as they examined it from afar. Intended to lure them out so whoever had the means and resources to take care of this dog better than Darya was able to take care of most of the people in their care, could find them and... well, hopefully just rob them. There were worse possibilities, but not ones Darya would allow themself to think about, not with the rumors of cannibalism and other brutalities spreading on the wind. They liked to keep such thoughts out of the minds of the Days, if possible. Keep morale as high as it could be, given the circumstances.

But the dog could smell them, they knew, and while they might not have trusted it completely, there it was, trotting towards them, something in its mouth -- a stick? -- which it dropped at their feet and then sat, obediently.

     “Ahh--” they exhaled, confused, but lowered themself down to one knee so as not to provoke the dog to attack, still ready to spring into action and run if they needed to, and then reached out a hand for it to sniff. 

[daryavolkov]

theghostnikita:

If Nikita was in this persons position, he may have expected something in return. It didn’t seem like a fair trade to him, they’d essentially saved his life and then offered him materials to help him further, even offered him shelter in their territory. If his childhood had taught him anything, it’d been that he should never give in exchange for nothing. He didn’t see room for favours in this world, he was trying too hard to look after himself to be so generous towards strangers.

Although, he supposed it was different for someone in a group of people. More people meant more opportunities to collect provisions, to keep you safe, to help you when you got into trouble. Nikita avoided companionship because he was selfish, he didn’t want to look after other people and didn’t want the guilt hanging over his head if something were to happen to them on his watch. It was easier, less painful, to be alone.

He wasn’t one for making promises either but their request was fair enough to Nikita; if could offer them anything then it was his possible assistance in the future. The world was big, there was a chance they may never even cross paths again.

“I’ll remember this,” he said quietly. He heard a stirring in the upper level where others were sleeping and took that as a signal that maybe it was time to go - he’d had more than enough human interaction for one day. He handed them back the sewing kit and gave the strap of the bag a small pull. It felt sturdy enough, he still made a mental note to look into finding another one as a backup.

“I’ll go before it gets too dark to see out,” Nikita said, zipping his jacket up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Thank you for helping me today, there are people who wouldn’t have,” he said, giving them a small nod before he quickly glanced around the barn then made for the exit, not looking back.

[daryavolkov]

colonelstonewall:

He had long learned to contain the sacrilegious words that wanted so desperately to come out of his mouth whenever they took praying to God for something as a good solution, when there were plenty of real, concrete things that could be done instead. It felt half like he was a boy again, deep in the Appalachian Mountains, listening to his parents telling him he should do some praying every time he had a problem. Look what that had gotten them. They’d couldn’t even dream of leaving what they knew. They’d probably died exactly where they’d lived their whole lives, praying for God to save them as the world ended around them, instead of trying to save themselves. 

It was a complicated thing, to spend so many years trying to separate himself from that sort of thought, and to do so successfully by finding philosophy, finding love. Then find himself right back in it at the end of the world, with little choice but to deal with it.

That was part of the reason he worried, because he had seen first hand what religion did to people, how it blinded them. There was only so much that thoughts and prayers could do before you needed to take real action. And real action was something they needed if they wanted to keep surviving and stand a real chance at making it through what was the most dangerous task they had faced yet.

“I’ll take a few hours of scouting today and tomorrow, see if there’s anyone around nearby who might fit the bill before we head out,” Stonewall said.

It wasn’t a request; he’d already made up his mind. He’d learned a long time ago that if you wanted something done, you had to do it yourself, he had only been hoping maybe it’d be easier this time, given the necessity. If Darya was going to leave it to God’s hands, like they always were content to do, then he would have to play that role again, like he always seemed to have to do with them.

They nodded, knowing that he wasn’t asking their permission, but also knowing that if he had asked, they would have given it without hesitation. That was, nearly always, the case with Stonewall: he did not ask them, when he wanted to do something, but his compass steered true, his actions aligning with their own needs and ideas, following different paths in the same direction. 

Stonewall, when he had come, had been a blessing: he wasn’t the only member of the Days who Darya felt had been sent to them, steered into their path by a gentle divine hand. When they prayed, they didn’t pray for solutions, but instead prayed for God to set them on the path that would lead them to the ability to do what needed to be done. When you were sick, and prayed to God for healing, He did not heal your wounds or cure your ailments. He led you to a doctor. 

If they were meant to take more people to Voronezh, Stonewall would find them today and tomorrow. If he found no one, there would be a good reason for it, and though his stubbornness might blind him to that, there would be a tactical advantage to having fewer feet on the ground, somehow. 

     ‘I’ll take inventory of our supplies, see what else we’ll need to gather, for the road.’ 

They tucked the small sewing kit into the pocket of their jacket, their fingers brushing across the scrap of gentle cloth they kept in their, their cross wrapped carefully within its folds, and then stood, brushing off their legs and stretching, for a moment, adjusting to the brief moment of vertigo that passed every time they stood. 

[daryavolkov]

zoyasokolov:

I will not take more than I need.

It sounded like asceticism spoken in the words of this strange prickly headed stranger, like something close to a religious guideline, a promise to not gorge. It almost annoyed her, it made her feel more rotten. How often had she taken for the sake of it? Hadn’t she been taken from? Didn’t she deserve her fair share, no matter the expense? She wouldn’t start a fight for the sake of it, she wasn’t Yuri, but she bit down hard, tasting bitterness. Her own acrid soul soured her mouth.

“Do you have a group?” They couldn’t be travelling alone, they didn’t have that worn down look of the solo travellers, the ones without anyone or anything to cling onto save the packs strapped to their back, and those didn’t carry hope. Maybe they were with the factions, they had stayed out of their shadows but they couldn’t help but watch then with curiosity. It had been just the two of them for so long, she had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by other voices, ideas.

Her eye was drawn to the flow of water, her own collection bubbling in a half rusted out pot over some coals. It was mesmerizing to look into the pure cleanliness of it, knowing that in a few short days it would be gone too. It would dry up or contaminate, just like every pond and inlet the twins had come across so far. “What is your name?” She asked quietly, not quite meeting their eyes. It felt like a frivolous question. In a moment they would be gone, and she would be left waiting again. As if it had never happened.

     ‘Yes, but they are several miles from here.’ They left the direction of the group out of their explanation, just in case the kind but wary woman in front of them was less trustworthy than she seemed. They had intentionally camped far enough away from the river, once they’d made it through Vukovi territory, to be able to hide from anyone trying to get water or cross the way they had. It had made coming to get water an all day task, but one Darya was willing to undertake again and again if it meant more safety for those who relied on them for it, those they had promised to keep safe. 

They had a handful of bottles filling their bag -- light, for the time being, but heavy, soon, once the bottles had been filled. It would have to be enough to last the group, five excepting them, until they made their way to cleaner streams, safer and untainted water. The walk back to camp would be much harder than the walk there, but the sky was still bright behind the heavy ceiling of cloud and ash; they would be back before it got dark, provided they managed to avoid any trouble on the road.

     ‘My name is Darya,’ they answered, looking at her with a small smile -- one of kindness and honesty if not quite friendliness. It was rare to have a civil conversation with someone, especially when resources like water were scarce. Some people, Darya had found, believed that the only way to survive in this world was to keep resources away from others, as if it was some numbers game and only the top percent would be permitted to live. They were glad to find that this person was not one of those kind. 

[daryavolkov]

maksvoloshyn:

They seemed unruffled by their outburst—and, really, why would they have been, when they faced down hordes of walkers without flinching? It made him feel doubly foolish, doubly young, something like a flush coming to his face while he looked down at his lap. And maybe something a little bit like guilty: they’d saved Maks when Maks wouldn’t have done the same for them. They’d saved Maks when Maks couldn’t have saved himself, let alone save anyone else.

He tried to push it down. Squash it ruthlessly. There was room for only one soft heart between him and Mykola, and it wasn’t him, wasn’t his. He lived a life that was the opposite of what this person was telling them: cruel where they were kind; passive where they were active, and all the more cruel in his passivity. He didn’t hurt people, maybe, but he looked the other way while people were hurt, and he benefited from their pain. Ate their food, wore their clothes, carried their supplies on his back.

He’d never saved a life, other than his own, other than Mykola’s. And most days that felt miraculous, like the answer to a prayer he hadn’t been able to pray—because if he’d started praying when the bombs fell, then what was the fucking point of a life of obstinance and blasphemy? He’d never thought that was anything to be ashamed of, until someone showed him how much more they could accomplish and aspire to.

Maks didn’t know if he would be like them if he could—(minus the sniper rifle, and the skill with it, that he’d take in a heartbeat)—he just knew that he couldn’t.

“You saved me,” he repeated back in a mumble, though neither of them needed the confirmation. They both already knew. The little bit of guilt he couldn’t squash nagged at him, and he spared a thought for the pack that hadn’t made it into the building with him, left in the dirt somewhere down below. They’d been scavenging, before he’d taken off on his own, and he hadn’t found much—something he knew he’d be in trouble for, when he got back to camp—but he felt compelled to offer it up, switching back to uncomfortable gratitude just as suddenly as he’d lashed out, as pathetic it had been. “Should I—give you something? Do you need anything? I don’t—I must owe you something.”

They shook their head in response. People had so little, these days, barely enough to live off of; they didn’t need to take things from anyone who didn’t need them, even in return for what they had done. They didn’t save people in order to earn anything -- it would have been an impossible trade, after all, for what did a life cost? What was equivalent, in trade, to another day, or another week or life, or even another year? 

No, they had never asked anything in return for what they did. They saved lives in order to save lives, and it was as simple as that. That this boy had listened to them when they told him to run was enough; he’d let them do their job, let their actions mean something significant and something good, a spark of goodness in this fallen apart world. 

     “No, please,” they said, shaking their head again. “We want for very little, right now, we wouldn’t want to take anything from you that you cannot spare.”

Theology was a complicated thing at the end of the world, when words like charity and alms stopped having meaning, when words like duty had changed so drastically. It was impossible to be selfless, in a world that wanted to destroy you piece by piece until you were no better than the beasts the Days had been hunting. But Darya held firm that it was possible to be good, even in the worst of circumstances, that God would not have put them up against something they could not face with prayer and understanding and determination. And compassion. Every hardship was a test.

And all they wanted was to spread the knowledge that it was possible to be good, even at the end of all things.

     “But if you have a chance, one day, to save a stranger’s life yourself, I hope that you will take it.”

[daryavolkov]

colonelstonewall:

“We’ve made it through overrun towns before and left them safer. This is just bigger. We move slow, come at it from along the river, we might make it in without more hassle than we can handle. Once we’re there…” he shrugged slightly––there was no point in sugarcoating it to them, it was only fair––“Well, that’s a different story. But first things first.”

They needed to look forward, yes, but there would be enough difficulties on the road that they would need to make it through before they could even consider trying to make a difference there. It would be unimaginable to come out on the other side of a place so overrun if they went in tired and hungry, sick, without any kind of backup plan for if things went sour. But that was what he was there for, to make sure none of that happened, that they all remembered there were practicalities to think of if they wanted to win the proverbial war.

“It’ll be more important than ever to stay attentive. You never wanna head into enemy territory on no sleep, an empty stomach, without full battle rattle. It would help if we had more hands. Another good piece of gear or two,” he rattled off, instinctually slipping into the military jargon. As soon as he had said it, Stonewall paused, realizing how unintelligible that had to be to Darya. “More people, I mean. Capable hands.”

It wasn’t a sentiment he thought many would share in the apocalypse, where the more mouths to feed, the more feet to make noise, meant the greater chance of dying sooner rather than later. Hell, it wasn’t something he necessarily liked to think of, either. It was hard enough to look after as many as they already had in the Days, but he also knew that if Voronezh was as overrun as the rumors would have everyone believe, then they weren’t going to stand much of a chance as they were. If they were lucky, they’d be able to pick up another loner or two on the road there, prepare them well enough before they went in.

More people. Capable hands.

Darya had few reservations about adding numbers to their ranks: good people were hard to find, these days, and there was a shortage of people willing to cede to the leadership of someone like them, but every person who had joined the Days had meant something, to Darya, by the time they had finished speaking, for the first time, and they were not the kind who shut people out.

But each loss hurt, too. Each person who took their hands and told them to continue onwards without them, too hurt or too old or too sick to make the journey when they picked up camp and moved again. Each person felled by a bullet from an unseen gun, or the knife of a bandit who had snuck up on them alone in the night as they scouted. Adding more people meant the potentiality for more loss.

But Stonewall was right. He generally was. They were enough, for these small towns, abandoned villages they passed through. But Voronezh was a city, and if the rumors were true they would be outnumbered by walkers a hundred times over. Able bodies and able guns might be the only chance they had of even making a dent in the horde that occupied it. 

Even if it meant more mouths to feed, with their limited supplies. Even if it meant more footsteps to mask, as they approached, more bullets with which to load more guns. 

They wanted to tell him that they were in no hurry to reach Voronezh, that they could make whatever detours he thought wise to pick up supplies and people and any advantage they might be able to find. But it would have been a lie; especially after the other day in the forest with Erik, the moment they had been sure they were going to die, that their body was going to shut down long before they even saw the outskirts of Voronezh. Stonewall didn’t know, not yet, that even if their mission was not on a timer, their body was. 

     “We’ll pick up who we can, as we go,” they said, distracted enough they didn’t want to attempt to say it in English. “I will pray for God to send us anyone He sees fit.” 

[marialucias-blog1]

@daryavolkov.

Maria could never sleep anymore. Shifting in an almost soft periwinkle blue blanket, in some forgotten and slightly maggot-ridden old apartment, she counted sheep in the hopes of catching even forty winks.  But she could not bring herself even to forget harsh realities if only for a time. Being in the arms of Morpheus was a tedious job best left for those in safe company, and she was not. It seemed an awful juxtaposition that she with thick skin concealed such great paranoia, and with each passage of soft light from the sky continued so too did her desperation begin to swell.

She knew she had to keep walking. To find them. To find the Colonel, who’d offered her kindness and more a few days. To find some purpose in this shell of a world. Anything to stop the litany of murmurs forever plaguing her head. So she sheathed both her blades (the lone things preventing her from joining her family in the heavens above), retrieved her knapsack, and let her feet carry her to a road of redemption… or perhaps perdition.

The journey was dreaded and grueling. Everywhere there were signs of chaos, dulled now, but she forced herself to care little for those she passed. Men, women, and children, alike whose burned bodies were gathering dust. There were the live ones, too — walking in pairs or in threes; and she, hiding however she could in the open field, eager not to catch attention. Integrating into a trusted company was difficult, and she had no time for it. Not when her heart, or what was left of it, was set on joining someplace else.

Days were endless when one failed to catch sleep. So her feet moved, moved, and moved. Until there it was: the infamous faction’s ever-moving base, which difficult though not impossible to keep track of. Their setting now was town, abandoned and desolate. From this distance her sight was clear-cast, but her feet, usually ever-willing, refused to carry on the dreaded journey.

Hesitancy slowed her movements, it seemed. Like clockwork, her mind ticked slowly, each second passing by measured by the rising beat of the organ riddling her chest. For a woman who’d traveled a lonely road for the better part of the past few months, trepidation was her constant companion. With proverbial claws, she was easily a predator now as she had once been prey — the hunted turned huntsman. Cowardice, however, clung like some angry leech.

She’d heard of the rumors before the Colonel had reaffirmed them, had known too that she wouldn’t exactly fit the bill. But she was desperate and she was willing to learn. She could only hope that was enough. She walked until she was but a few meters away from the first person she could find. She stopped her calculated steps as she smoothed her stolen army garments down and proceeded to hold her hands up, hoping that she wouldn’t be gunned at first sight. They were too well-acquainted with them, even though she didn’t exactly look like a threat. 

“Is this the Days?” she spoke in Russian.

[daryavolkov]

The road to Voronezh would be hard. They had known that from the outset. 

Each road they took got a little bit harder -- there were some things rest alone could not heal, some thing that only got worse with time, and Darya’s body, it seemed, was one of those things. They hadn’t remembered walking to be so much of a physical burden, hadn’t remembered the way their pack bit into the muscles in their shoulders or the way the uneven, ripped apart pavement of the road threatened to trip them, roll their ankles, send them falling to the ground, unless they kept all of their focus on the placement of every footstep as they went along. 

There was something in the back of their mind telling them that they would not make it to Voronezh.

There was something else, stronger, angry, fighting back against that in their mind and in their chest. Something determined to at least see this through to their end. 

Normally, on the road, Darya would have been aware of every sound, every stranger. But with the amount of focus they needed just to stay upright, they had set others to the task of scouting, intending to keep to the center of the group where they wouldn’t need to be alert. But fatigue and caution had meant they had fallen, just slightly, behind, a few meters behind the back of the group.

The woman took them by surprise. They had seen her approaching, however remotely, vaguely processed that someone was headed their way, but they had by no means expected her to stop. Travelers who passed on the road generally did one of two things: attacked one another, or kept their heads down. Armed as the Days were, they usually experienced the latter. 

But the woman’s familiar Russian caught Darya’s attention, pulled it from their feet, almost sent them tripping over a crack in the beat-apart pavement as their head pulled up sharply to look at the woman speaking to them. Army fatigues, but not her own -- they were too big, likely scavenged, and she didn’t have a weapon that they could see. She held herself like a civilian-- no, she held herself like a prey animal. She was lucky, then, that she hadn’t come across a group of predators.

     “Da,” they answered, with a nod, stopping for only a moment before gesturing for her to fall into stop beside them as they spoke -- if they fell behind the group now, Darya knew they would never catch up. “Friend or foe?”

[daryavolkov]

castilloerik:

There were only so many ways that Erik and Darya could have prepared for the worst case scenarios upon walking out into this mission. For either of them, none of the scenarios they readied for were theoretical. Any one of these scenarios could happen. At any given time. Without so much as a warning. Perhaps, such was the fragility of life. But, really, such was just the cruelty of the way of the world. Gone were the days of leaving one’s home knowing they could come back. Gone were the days of safety. Gone were the days of screaming help into the void, knowing that somebody would arrive with good intentions in minutes.

No, Erik did not scream. Erik did not give so much as a gasp, even.

Somewhere in the back of his mind was a siren: loud and unending, the kind that came only with the grief he had long learned to subdue. Yet, while his mind screamed with irrationality, his body knew what to do. It had faced too many losses to know what to do. Somehow, it made sense: when the sirens in one’s head never slowed down to a stop, one learned to navigate against it.

At once after the thud of Darya’s body into the soft earth, Erik knelt beside them. There was no need to tell him what to do: he simply did. While he searched for the cause for their fall — perhaps, a stray bullet, a silent shot —, there remained a part of him aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t disconnect from the world; it was this world that would kill them both.

Yet, Erik would find no stray bullet. He would find nothing from the outside causing Darya to fall.

There was a voice inside him that claimed it was always like this. That everyone was like this. That sometimes, bodies just gave out. That the over-fatigue of the world had gotten to Darya, and their body had to resort to its own means to give them rest. A voice, so eager on convincing Erik that all was fine, kept him going.

Even though he knew. Even though he knew this was different.

There was nothing else to do, though. It took a series of shaking and tapping and attempting to get Darya to awaken before Erik resigned. He raised Darya’s feet above their heart level. Any constrictive clothing had been loosened.

This was his fault. His fault. His fault. 

It took a moment, when they finally opened their eyes again, for the shapes above them to resolve into a picture, for the muted colors and confused lines to turn into something they could process, and a moment longer for it to turn into something they could understand: they were on the ground, Erik’s face above them. Positioned uncomfortable, as if they had fallen.

For a minute, it was all they could do to suck in a shaky gulp of air, their body’s instinctual attempt to try to get more oxygen to their brain, to reinvigorate their bloodflow so they could get up, so they could understand what was happening. But their limbs didn’t want to obey, didn’t want to move, so it took them longer than they would have liked to push themself up, trembling slightly, onto their elbows, blinking everything into place. 

They had only been out for a moment. At least, that’s what it had felt like to them. Like film snipped apart and cut into place, one frame ago they had been standing, dizzy, and the next they were here. What was missing? How long had Erik been hovering above them like he was now, and how much time had they lost?

The nausea was still there, they realized, resigned,as they took stock of their own body as quickly as they could. The nausea and the soreness, but the taste in their mouth -- bright, like copper -- was gone, at least, and the lightness in their peripheral vision. 

     “I--” they started, and found their voice hoarse, their throat constricted. They coughed, and something wet caught in their throat.

Was this it, then? they wondered, idly-- but no, not this couldn’t be it. They weren’t ready. The Days weren’t ready, not to lose a leader, not now, not yet. Not when there was nothing in place to keep them doing without Darya’s guidance. Not when Darya had prayed for so long for just a little more time, just a chance to ensure they would be able to continue on in her wake.