it’s not like he’s never been out of the compound before. he’s had his fair share of supply runs with dwight, had even been allowed to go hunting once or twice ( even though he was admittedly not an eminent authority with guns. he personally preferred his knife. it was more hands-on, and he liked to look those dead fuckers in the empty, decaying eyes when he killed them, which gained him a rare, satisfied look from his father upon telling ), but this was his first time alone outside. the woods, once possibly a peaceful, maybe even serene place, were nothing but backdrop to him by now, the compound falling away behind him as he made his way across the street.
he had learned to drive early on - his first time behind the steering wheel at a mere ten years, and by now he likes to think of himself as a quite secure driver. the key creaks god-awfully in the ignition of the car he’s hidden here some days ago, and after the third try ( shaking hands, what kind of traitors! little boy, what are you doing out alone in the wilderness? what nonsense fuckery are you up to, huh? you better get your ass home before i do it for ya! ) and a violent shake of the head to get rid of his dad’s voice, he manages to get the engine to run. there’s nothing to hold him back now, nothing between him and the undoubted glory of killing the one guy that had been messing with them for far too long now.
if i pull this off, he won’t beat me anymore. maybe he’ll look at me and not be disgusted with the weak excuse of a son nature had punished him with. maybe he won’t hate me anymore. it’s enough to get his blood pumping, enough to make his brows furrow in angry determination. i’m gonna kill that asshole, or i’m gonna die trying. either way, it’ll end tonight. at the break of dawn, this will be over, for me or for him.
the gun is tucked away safely in its holster as he pulls up the familiar road to alexandria, far enough to not be seen, close enough to not tire him out if he walks the rest of the way. and so the old car will be parked, carelessly by the side of the road ( who’s going to look twice? there are more car wrecks than walkers out in this fucking jungle ). it ends tonight, he thinks again, and small feet carry him quietly through the underbush, closer, closer towards the village.
he knows the sewers, knows them from his own home base ( how different could they be here?, he muses, climbs into the darkness, flashlight guiding the way ), and his breath is so loud in his ears that he almost misses the half-rotten shit grabbing at his ankles. “ugh -”, gasped out exclamation before knife slides into macerated flesh, and then: silence. those fuckers are everywhere, he thinks, freeing his ankle from the death grip of the walker, but he’s close enough to the city centre now to hear footsteps above, and so he’s driven further, has to find an exit hidden enough to not be spotted upon climbing up.
the city seems eerily excited, an atmosphere of departure, and for once he is thankful for his small frame and delicate body: fits like a puzzle piece into the tiniest nooks and gets him to rick’s house undiscovered. ( thank fuck for the maps chase had drawn up and left lying around so carelessly back in his dad’s office. thank fuck for dumbass chase the cartograph )
his knife is lodged between his teeth as he climbs up the back of the house to the one open window he located, gun all but forgotten, and he had expected a lot of things, but not: a child. wide-eyed, sweet, innocent, in a nursery bed, and for a moment, he is frozen, unable to move. fuck. fucking hell, i can’t kill a fucking baby! his father’s voice grunts with disapproval in the back of his head, but he shakes it off. i don’t kill fucking babies, you sick motherfucker. and then said baby starts crying, and he can’t hide fast enough, thoughts all but viciously circling in his head, frantic, erratic, and the door opens and he can’t think of much to do except lunge forward with a pathetic excuse of something between a battle cry and an overexerted grunt.
“aa’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya!”
