I know I've been gone forever, but it wasn't all for naught! As i have started making progress on a big ass project. Point is I've started writing a fanfic for the ENTIRE Walking Dead show. Yes, it is a Daryl x Male Reader. Yes you might cry, as I will go through as much for the show in fan fic form as I can. So far i have solid ideas all the way up to the start of season four!
That being said please keep in mind that The Walking Dead is a violent and gory show, my writing will reflect the story as exact as I can with an additional character. There will be graphic content, so if you are triggered by mention of death, suicide, gore, assault, abuse, drugs, and more. PLEASE DO NOT READ. I don't want anyone to be harmed by my works.
City of the Dead
Prologue
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“Vera-shka, I need a screwdriver.” The young man called out, wiping sweat from his brow as his younger sister aided him. She scoffed, aggressively handing over the tool making him wince in pain as it pressed against his growing blisters. He had been working on his father’s old Apache for almost six hours now, his hands were aching, and his mind was tired. He sighed, carefully replacing yet another piece of the heli’s dash.
“You know, as much as Papa loves his Pititsa he really let it go.” Vera grumbled, leaning against the Apache’s hull. Her older brother grunted in agreement, screwing in the last piece of the helicopter’s new gauges.
“Da, Papa’s too busy drinking to be bothered with his favorite child. Why do you think he practically raised us on this bird?” He laughed with no feeling, he couldn’t even muster the energy anymore. With yet another sigh he climbs out of the helicopter, carefully cleaning oil and grease off his hands with his rag. “Vera-shka, you should probably get back, he’ll raise hell if dinner isn’t fixed by the time he’s home.” She crossed her arms, raising a brow and pursing her lips sassily.
“Seriously? Do I really have to? I mean what's the point! You know I suck at cooking, he’ll be pissed no matter what! You do it, you’re the golden child. Suka.” she raged, waving her hands around rabidly. He sighed, nodding with a weak smile.
“Okay. You win Vera. I’ll do all the work, not like I’ve been covering your ass since birth.” He muttered, turning for the house. He knows he shouldn’t be hard on Vera, she was only fourteen. She shouldn’t be at home fixing dinner and helicopters. He stopped for a moment, sucking in a deep breath before turning around. “I’ll only cook if you-”
His heart hammered in his ears. His body running cold with goosebumps as a string seemed to snap inside him. A man with pale skin and stringy hair had grabbed Vera - pulling on her ponytail - his teeth digging into her arm as she tried to pull him off. He stood frozen in fear and shock for a moment as the man ripped apart her arm, making it go limp… exposing her neck.
(Name) grabbed the nearest tool, a wrench. He gripped it tightly, tight enough to pop some of the blisters. He raised the wrench, ignoring the liquid coating his hand and the wrench as he swung at the being. “Слезь с нееб, сука!” He screamed ferally, his eyes wide with rage as the sickening crunch of the man’s skull filled his ears. The man fell to the ground, part of his skull caved in. The older tossed his tool aside, rushing over and cradling his limp sister in his arms. She gurgled, blood gushing from her neck and spilling from her mouth as she choked. He stifled a sob, gently hugging her.
“Мне жаль! я так виноват…” He wailed. She silently cried, only able to respond with soft gurgling and sighing. He pressed his forehead against hers, gently cradling her wound. He fumbled for a bit, his mind going blank as he reached for his phone. The blood caking his fingers made it difficult to hold onto. He swallowed hard as he called 911. The phone picked up after a few seconds, the woman on the line sounded fearful as she asked “911 what's your emergency?” He blubbered for a bit, mumbling in Russian manically. The woman on the line started to speak, only for her sentence to be cut off by a scream, and the steady beeping of the call ending. Was the line cut?
She choked and gasped one last time before falling limp and cold in his arms. He trembled, pulling away slightly to look at her face. Slowly shaking his head, he shakes her a little. It wasn’t the first time he lost someone, and it wasn’t the first time someone died in front of him. All the same, seeing someone so much younger than you die, die so brutally in your arms.
He cried out, coughing and choking as he dropped her body to the ground. He stumbled backwards, his stomach catching in a knot as bile was expelled. “No no no…” he whimpered, his (light/dark) hair falling into his face. His body pulsed with strain as more acid spilled from his mouth and nose. The burning sensation in his throat and sinuses made him cry harder as he clutched at his hoodie, smearing blood all over the fabric. He gripped at his hair and pressed his face to the ground, hyperventilating as he pulled. Small clumps of dead hair fell onto the ground before him. Gagging again he slowly sat up, wiping his face roughly. He sniffed hard, pressing his palms into his eyes - trying to stop the flow of tears.
Soft groaning was covered by the young man’s sobs, he didn’t notice the growling and moaning behind him. He didn’t notice the footsteps, and he didn’t notice that his sister was reanimated.
He yelped in fear at the feeling of delicate, cold, and clammy hands against his scalp. He threw himself forward, ignoring that he just fell into a puddle of vomit as he turned around. Slowly he shook his head, his head pulsing with pains in sync with his heart. Hard fast thumping, pumping adrenaline and fear through his body.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His sister stood before him, groaning softly with pale red-yellow eyes. Her fingers twitched erratically, and he could see drops of drool running down her chin. He was almost fool enough to speak up before realizing, realizing that his beloved Vera-shka - the little sister he raised since she was a baby - was dead. He let out a breathy whine, shaking his head as she lunged forward. He kicked out, holding her up with his legs as he held onto her hands.
“Vera! Vera, stop!” He wailed. Her only response to his begging was more growling and hissing, mindlessly snapping her jaws at him. He let out a shaky breath, kicking her to the side with great force, he panted, struggling to crawl away and towards the tool box. The tool box had been knocked over during the first fight, spilling the tools just out of his reach from his current position. He gasped, feeling Vera grab at his ankles. He flips onto his back, watching as Vera bit at his boots savagely. He hesitated for only a second before kicking her, she didn’t budge. “Please, Vera-shka please.” He begged weakly, fumbling behind him for a tool. He kicked her again, throwing her from his feet and breaking her nose in the process.
She growled loudly, standing with a wobble. That's not Vera. Vera is dead. He thought harshly, watching her dead eyes for tears yet none came. She was always a cry baby when it came to pain, she would have passed out on the floor in tears if it was actually her. The thought cleared his mind and his vision blurred as he grabbed a tool from the ground. A pipe wrench, he could only tell by the wight and the weapons red color. Weapon. That's right, it’s his weapon. He grunted with effort, raising the tool - feeling the weight press into his shoulders and arms. It was heavy, heavier than it should have been. He grunted with great effort, his chest tightening painfully as the weight caved in Vera’s skull.
He dropped the tool, breathing hard. He swayed a little with each step, stepping around the body and stumbling back to the house. He wheezed, coughing hard as he stepped into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and quickly threw off his clothes, throwing them across the small room with great anger. Slowly, he turned to his reflection, watching as splattered blood dripped down his chin. He pressed his forehead to the glass, trying to even out his breathing as the room filled with warm mist.
Squeezing his eyes shut didn't help, the image of his undead sister seared his mind's eye like a hot iron. He let out a loud wail, smashing his face into the mirror as hard as he could. The glass shattered, slicing across his forehead to his left eyebrow in one jagged gash. He fell back, holding his face as he whined in pain, immediately regretting acting on his intrusive thoughts.
Scoffing at himself he hobbles his way into the shower, laying back in the tub and letting the burning water pelt his body. He looked up at the ceiling weakly, one eye slightly closed - his vision blurred red. He let out a shaky sigh, running his hands through his (h/c) hair; slicking it back with the water. How was he supposed to explain to his Mama that Vera was dead? How was he supposed to tell his Papa that he had to kill some crazy person? How would he hide it? Could he even hide it?
“I’ve done it before… no, that was different. This is my sister, not some fucking rat.” He muttered to himself, his throat tightening as fear and dread wrapped around him like chains to hell. How was he supposed to fix this?
An hour later, the water had run cold and he had finally mustered the energy to clean off his skin and hair, wincing as the soap got into his blisters and cut. He lazily turned off the water, watching as the reddened water drained. With a huff he slowly climbs out and opens the cabinet, grabbing some gauze, gauze pads, and butterfly stitches. He carefully placed the butterfly stitches along the cut, pulling it together slightly before placing some of the gauze padding. He carefully wrapped the injury, making sure it's nice and tight before tucking the loose end. He took any excess gauze and wrapped his blistered hands, probably best to keep blood and dirt out of the injury.
“I hope this is some fucked dream…” He whispered to himself, wrapping a fluffy towel around himself as he awkwardly waddled out of the bathroom and to his room. Based on the silence, his Mama and Papa weren’t home. Maybe he would have time to bury Vera.
With that idea in mind he was quick to get dressed, wincing as he pulled on his clean shirt and pants, the fabric rubbing against his bandaged hands. He was sore, nauseous, and exhausted; but all the same something inside him told him, he has to bury her. She was his little sister, a literal baby only 14 years ago. He could remember vividly taking care of her when he had just turned eleven and she had come home. It’s only right to bury her. There's no way to contact the police with the line cut.
He grabbed a pair of gloves and carefully fitted them over his bandages, then ran to the garage to grab a shovel - but not before grabbing his pocket knife to be safe.
The shovel rang out a metallic noise as he dragged it behind him, making his way to the heli and his sister’s body. His other hand was occupied with the knife, flipped open and ready to use. He was half expecting those things to be up and moving, he’s seen dead people walk, and at this point he doesn’t even know if that's what he saw.
Once close enough to his sister’s body he was hit with a foul sour odor. The stench of death hung around the heli like a thick fog, he gagged a little, covering his face as he inched closer. Once closer he took a good look at the ‘man’. He was definitely dead, hell he was definitely dead before (Name) got to him. The young man shook his head a little, his eyes burning slightly - whether it was from the smell of rotting flesh or his sister’s death he didn’t know.
“This shit can’t be real.” He muttered, walking a little farther than the heli. He sighed, trying to ignore the smell as he put away his knife and gripped the shovel. As he plunged the tool into the dirt the weight of what went down today rested against his consciousness. His sister was dead. Silent tears burned his eyes as he continued digging, tossing the dirt to the side.
