#cordylpse

[hopeforged]

@cordylpse​ liked for a starter for owen from abby !

“  the  fireflies  are  gone.  there’s  nothing  in  santa  barbara,  owen.  ”

[coincount]

@cordylpse: look at all these books. i wish i had more room in my backpack.

the library sure is extensive. there are a few burnt copies — a few tossed out into the wreckage along with everything else — but they're mostly intact. this week's supply run takes them into downtown seattle; virtually entirely picked-over, nothing of true use for the apocalypse, but two fingers bend at the spine of a tattered version of 1984, and abby flits through it with a surprising ease.

"yeah..." pensive. thoughtful. she grabs a copy of frankenstein and runs a finger over the grooves in the hardback cover. it's no batteries, or flashlights, or abandoned tins of never-expire food that might make the next patrol more meaningful if not less destructive, but — there are things that she holds dearly that don't need to have a meaning. (jerry taught her that; some things are just... things.)

"we can come back." she doesn't mean for it to be a question — the underbelly of the library is beginning to grow roots and there are vines that curl their ways up the sides of the bookshelves, but they can come back. this will still be there in the morning. in the meantime, abby slides her hands over a selection of short stories that she's never heard of, and dusts off the debris.

"i can... take some more, if you want."

[coincount]

@cordylpse / amy: i was thinking... after we get back, we can take it easy for a little while.

a low light settles over the flames of the fire, and abby scrapes through the last of the beans in the bottom of the tin while amy talks. (they don't... talk about that kind of thing. the world keeps her awake at night, turning and growing rot in the back of her brain like the fucking infected themselves — it's her dad, the creak of an opening door, the thump-thump-thump of quickened feet. it's blood. death. shattering silence all over again.)

"after we get back." after we get back, everything changes. everything. she's not sure what she's expecting, but taking it easy has never felt right on her shoulders, and the tense jigsaw of muscles running down the back of her neck and into her back have never been able to slot themselves into the right places. this world is fractured. justice is broken. there are things that need to be righted, and wrongs that can never be undone. after we get back depends on the catharsis in play. (but for now, she can't think about after. the snow's falling heavier the further into wyoming they get, and the nights are getting colder with each passing day. isaac gives them leave, tells them to sort it, and she sits. waits. her patience wears thinner and thinner with each passing day. he's so fucking close, she can taste it.)

abby has not been a good friend in passing months, and an even worse girlfriend. they barely talk anymore, just sit in silence while she thumbs through page after page of the newest well-loved book on her shelf. joel. joeljoeljoeljoeljoel. she is fucking screaming for him like the clenched fist she's become.

"it'll be different, after we get back."

[coincount]

@cordylpse / amy: damn, we missed all the action.

patrol routes don't often go wrong. which, in hindsight, is probably the wrong thing to say when there's still three hours left on this one. (the sun is starting to go down — isaac still believes in the power of round-the-clock patrols, extra batteries, and barrelling through the dark and hoping for the best. all they have to do is make it through the next few hours unscathed.)

there are three bodies on the floor, and three pools of blood that are running into each other. they're... not scars, but when she grabs one by the hair and tilts the head up, she doesn't recognise him either. (the fob is almost splitting at the seams — the queue to get lunch is longer than she's ever seen it, and isaac's starting to make real headway into his next move. that's... slightly terrifying.)

the coffee shop is littered with broken glass — shattered at the end of a crowbar, or a bat, or whatever plank of wood the assailant could get their hands on, but this looks more like a hit than anything else. seattle is empty — shaken up and dumped out the sides along with the rubble, but there must be stragglers skulking in the dark. not everyone subscribes to the WLF way of doing things, and not everyone's a fucking culty maniac.

"keep your eyes open. just — make sure that whoever did this isn't still here." she thumbs her way through the first body's pockets and pulls a note (dear maria, i know you're long gone, but i can't bring myself to end it— jesus christ.) and two half-empty matchstick boxes. not particularly helpful.