Chapter Text
Under harsh white lights— sterile, serene, secluded— strange organisms danced under a microscope. Doctor Angela Ziegler dissected them with the proficiency of a machine, steady hands accustomed to operation carefully prodding at curious micro-organisms never before seen. In a matter of weeks it claimed millions of lives— appearing everywhere all at once, sowing chaos and dismantling civilisation.
Angela was exposed to none of the aforementioned destruction. She knew little of what happened in the world, and less of what people had to do to survive. A mere day after reports of 'infection' she was unceremoniously plucked from her office at Mercy Hospital by men in uniform and flown to a guarded facility. Under constant watch, she and a handful of other esteemed doctors of the region were ‘coerced’ into researching a strange virus.
The information given to them was limited, a majority of it classified: it was a virus that affected the human body like no other— yet its explicit effects were yet unknown to Angela. When asked to consider the use of ‘test subjects’, she vehemently disagreed with the facility’s leadership, and thereafter was separated from the rest of her peers, sworn to silence, and forced to make surface observations of the pathogen under constant surveillance. She held her head high in spite of it all, knowing that what they wanted her to do flew in the face of all her convictions.
Her ‘bodyguard’, a younger man named Vito, waited a mere three days before attempting romantic advances in the form of pick-up lines and extra rations. His crush on Angela was both obvious and obviously unreciprocated. Still, in his youth and naivety the man seemed to hold on to hope that the beautiful and mysterious Doctor Ziegler would one day open her heart to him. They were, after all, expected to remain close together for the foreseeable future.
“The higher ups won’t tell me what’s going on, but there's been talk about 'zombies'. Communications are thin but we're safe in here, I'm sure.” Keen as always, Vito watched from a fair distance as Angela worked carefully with the samples. He so loved these moments with the polite doctor, not knowing that Angela— despite tolerating his company— often found him a curse on her productivity. Still, she appreciated all the gossip he relayed to her. Given her status as an outcast, his input would fill gaps in her knowledge about the disease, although there was still much kept from her.
“Zombies are scientifically inconceivable, Vito.” She replied, reluctantly tearing her gaze from the microscope to address him. “You speak of the walking dead: A paradox in itself. I’m sure the others are just engaging in idle gossip, nothing more.”
“O-Oh, sure, of course!” The young guard beamed at the attention he received, “Even I don’t know what’s up there... I mean, it’s all under wraps, but rest assured your security is my top priority, doctor!” He patted the security baton and pistol strapped to his belt.
Angela forced a smile. She hated those weapons of war: tools built to wound the very people she swore to save when she dedicated her life to a career in medical research. She suppressed the urge to argue vehemently against their distribution, reassuring herself that her work, at least, was ultimately going to be used to help and heal.
Her day passed much the same as any day in the last four weeks: boring observations and repetitive research notes sent to a faceless ‘superior’ Angela would never see. Forbidden to use more equipment than she was given, there was little she could do but stare helplessly at a sample in her lab, and at the day's end return to her barren quarters with nothing but white walls, a bathroom, and a boarded window to accompany her.
Escorted back to her room after being given rations and a spare bar of chocolate from Vito, Angela turned in for the night, frustrated by another day of idleness. She fell onto her bed with a sigh as the heavy metal latch on the outside of her door clicked into place, and wondered when she went from being one of the country’s most reputable doctors to a government prisoner. Now more than ever she mused upon why she had been secluded in the facility, and more importantly: why the greatest medical minds in the country had to be stolen from the populace in a supposed difficult time of need. She fell asleep thinking of her research in medicine— mind working even when it should well be resting.
Sirens, red lights, and a sense of dread. Angela sat upright in bed, the sleep in her eyes dispelled by a feeling of sheer panic. Throwing her sheets aside she slung her legs over the mattress, barefoot and disoriented. A light above her door was flashing red: declaring a state of emergency. Bolting across the room she threw herself against it, palms crashing against thick steel as she called for somebody, anybody to open the door, “Hello, Vito, anyone!?” She threw herself against the barricade even harder, bruising her fists as she pounded uselessly against its frame. “Please, I’m in here!”
It held strong, even after an hour of relentless assault the barricade scarcely budged, its locking mechanism on the other side unmoved. Hours crawled by, but even as daylight streamed through tiny imperfections in the boarded window and the sirens died Angela could hear nothing that sounded like stability. There was gunfire, indistinct and faraway shouting… then nothing. Several times she heard impacts against the door, scratching on the floor, growling… hissing. It intensified with every noise she made, and Angela could swear on her medical license that it seemed almost inhuman in nature.
Slumped to the ground, she resorted to waiting. Glancing over at the untouched rations by her bed, Angela wondered how long it would take for someone to find her— if she were to be found at all.
Five days crawled by, each slower than the next. There was no longer any running water, no electricity. The room was dark most days, filled with dread as Angela became more and more acquainted with the prospect of death. On the seventh day, she had run out of food and was on her last drop of water. Exhausted, she once again sat slumped against the door, too weak to do much else. An all-consuming odour seeped into her room over time: The stench of death and rot. Angela wondered darkly if she were to smell like that soon, and slowly her eyes closed to conserve what little energy she could.
“I’m telling you Jesse, this is a fool’s errand. Nothing here but the dead ones.”
Voices.
Her eyes shot open. Either she was going insane or she could hear the voices of people talking— the sounds echoed down the corridor, footsteps increasing in volume as they approached. Finding a renewed energy within her, Angela pulled herself to the door once again. Despite her bruised arms and hands she pounded feverishly on the steel as she had days ago. Too weak to shout, she managed strangled ‘helps’ and ‘pleases’, convinced that if she was not rescued now, the chance would never come again.
Jesse McCree was a survivor. A sharpshooter, camper, and modern day cowboy, he— unlike most— was somewhat prepared for the apocalypse. The man was playing pool at a local pub when it happened: a dozen 'zombies' barrelling through the entrance. Pressing against and shattering windows, they mounted a sudden and deadly assault on the living. Jesse watched as other patrons were set upon by rabid dead. He saw them consumed alive, flesh torn apart by what was human no longer and later, he saw several of them stand again: Missing blood and chunks of flesh but ambling ever forward, driven by a primal need to feed. McCree barely escaped with his life, pool cue and revolver in hand. Gathering what supplies he could, he set about surviving a new world ravaged by the walking dead. Mickey, the bartender and only other survivor from the pub, accompanied him.
Over weeks they traversed the country, avoiding hordes of undead and looting what they could from abandoned buildings and stores. He came upon the deserted facility on accident whilst hiding from a horde, finding it filled with corpses too badly eaten to reanimate. Any dead that remained seemed to have filtered out in search of fresh meat, and all that was left was gore and signs of a gunfight shrouded in the shadows of once-lit halls.
“Shit,” McCree steeled himself at the sight, plucking a loaded pistol from a nearby corpse he quietly inched forward, “What the hell is this place?”
“You asking me or the dead people?” Micky quipped, following close behind. From his peripheral McCree could tell the man was shaking under his wit: The new world had gotten to him, eating away at his sanity as he watched men turn into monsters and was forced to ‘kill’ them in turn— even if they were already dead. He could barely shoot a gun without looking ready to keel over in sickness.
McCree rolled his eyes, preferring to keep alert for signs of the reanimated. Still as they seem on the ground, he had seen no shortage of them suddenly coming alive, nipping at ankles. “Not that it matters, it ain't nothin now.” He huffed in reply, eyes darting around darkened halls for supplies and munitions. His throat felt dry, and he wanted nothing more than to light up a cigar to calm his nerves.
“I’m telling you Jesse, this is a fool’s errand. Nothing here but the dead ones, we need to leave before we get swarmed or—”
Before Mickey could finish, McCree held a hand up to shush him mid-sentence. The ensuing silence gave way to sounds of banging, skin against steel, and what sounded like a voice.
“You hear that?” He asked, turning to look at his partner.
“Dead ones?” Mickey asked. Voice trembling, he held his gun closer to himself, hands so sweaty they threatened to slip from the grip.
“Listen man, we gotta leave…”
“Sounded too human to be one of em’, Mick. Could be survivors down here.” Ignoring his partner’s pleas McCree ventured forward down the dark hallway to a barricaded room. Trusty six-shooter at the ready by his side he placed a shaky hand on the latch and pulled it loose.
The locking mechanism gave away with an agonising creak, and the banging on the door stopped - replaced by eerie silence. For a moment it was as though the noise had never existed. Jesse McCree pulled his hand back to hover an inch above his holstered revolver, ready for an unwelcome surprise.
One second, two, three passed.
“Could've sworn I heard—”
And all of the paranoia built up in Mickey collapsed. He was worn down and worn out: a man consumed with a dangerous fear. Without warning he sounded a terrible cry, a shout that echoed through the dark halls as he thrust his arms out in front of him, shoving McCree roughly to the ground with the strength of a cornered animal.
“Fuck you! They won’t take me, I won’t let them take me!”
“God damn it Mick, pull yourself together this ain’t helpin’ anyone!”
Winded and struggling to sit up, McCree found himself kicked back down again by a man he had considered a friend and trusted partner for weeks— now a paranoid wreck attempting to use him as zombie bait for escape.
By the time he could pull himself together Mickey was halfway down the hall— running towards the exit in a mad attempt to escape an imaginary horde at his heels. He was loud, and McCree feared that he had indeed stirred some of the undead from their slumber. Cursing under his breath, he pushed the steel door open— hoping to find a moment’s rest before leaving himself.
Angela sat in the corner of the room, hunched up against the wall with her knees pulled to her chest. She heard the shouting and expected rescue, but it seemed there had been a fight, and she felt too weak to pull the door open on her own. She had all but given up and crawled away to accept death until one of the men pushed through the reinforced steel door: Hat and spurs, poncho and beard— a cowboy straight out of an old western.
“Well well, looks like you’re a live one after all.” He said, crouching before Angela to quickly check her condition.
“Name’s Jesse McCree. Can you walk?”
He held his hand out for her— a hand that Angela gratefully took. “I-I think I can.” She rasped, pulling herself up with renewed hope and energy.
“Angela Ziegler, and thank you for this.”
McCree nodded, acknowledging the gratitude. He had questions for Angela, but they would have to wait. Despite having been abandoned, he could not bring himself to let go of his partner just yet. Reaching into his backpack he retrieved the loaded pistol looted earlier and offered it to the blonde. She met the gesture with a disapproving scowl.
“What is this for?”
“Look, I don’t know how long you’ve been in here but the world out there now is no world to live in without a weapon.” McCree said, impatiently shoving the pistol into her hands.
“Point and shoot. You can do that, right?”
“It just seems a little dramatic.” Angela muttered, feeling uneasy with a weapon. She ignored McCree’s incredulous stare, and followed the cowboy towards the exit.
For one week she was out of the loop within the facility— but she was out of the loop for even longer when it came to the world outside. It was quieter than she remembered, and would have been serene had it not been littered with bodies old and new. She never imagined stepping out into the sunlight would be so… shocking.
“What happened here?” She asked, eyes wide as she spied a motionless body hanging from a collapsed chain-link fence, its limbs tangled in barbed wire. There were more… all dead— skin and flesh ripped apart as though they had been brutalised by some wild animal. Some faces she recognised, others she could not. There were too many corpses, too much death; it was almost too much for Angela to bear. Reeling from the sights and smells of human rot, she turned her head and felt her stomach flip itself over.
By now, McCree had surmised that the blonde knew absolutely nothing of the infection— at least nothing about what it did to people . “You have questions, I’ll answer them, but we gotta find Mickey first.” He hurried the doctor along. There was a fresh pool of red near the entrance, a trail of blood that had not been there when they entered. Fearing the worst, he pulled Angela aside to hug the wall, following the trail until it turned the corner of the building.
They could hear nothing. Silence. And it worried both Angela and McCree more than any noise could. Gesturing for the blonde to stay back, he took a breath, held his revolver close, and whipped around the corner, gun aimed and ready to fire. But one look at the scene and the cowboy knew he didn’t have to.
Mickey lay there, slumped against the wall. He was bleeding profusely, and a simple glance would show that something had taken a sizeable chunk out of his arm— ripping through his jacket and exposing what flesh and bone he had underneath.
“Hell.” McCree breathed through clenched teeth, and crouched to examine the scene. Behind him, Angela finally mustered the courage to peek around the corner.
And found herself wishing she hadn’t.
The blonde felt bile rise in her stomach once again, but forced the sensation down. It was as though the man had been mauled by a bear, but something about the bite mark didn’t sit quite right with Angela. She looked away, willing herself to stare at something else— anything else. And her eyes fell on the body a mere five feet away.
It lay belly down, head cocked at an unnatural angle as though forcibly snapped aside. It was human, or at least had been. The force of a blow shaved off a portion of its skull, and the wound was so recent that blood was still oozing from it. Strange, Angela thought, noting that the decomposition of the body indicated that it had been dead for around a week. Nearby, a steel pipe lay in a pool of the corpse’s blood, brain matter and bits of scalp and hair clung to its surface. She stepped in to get a closer look at the body's face beneath the layers of dried blood and flayed skin: it was a man whose face she failed to recognise, too badly decomposed and marred with blood and teeth marks to be properly identified.
“I gave him a good whack, Jesse. Dropped my gun… somewhere.” Every breath a physical labour, the injured Mickey looked relieved at the sight of his old partner, “Showed him what’s what, but the bastard took a chunk out my arm.“
“You’re wastin’ breath and bleedin’ out is what.” McCree leaned forward, noting the loss of colour in his friend’s face. Gingerly, he went to inspect the arm wound, but the slightest shake of Mickey’s head deterred him from attempting first aid. Both men knew what a bite from a walker did to a person. If the injury failed to kill him, the resulting infection and fever would eventually.
“Listen, Jesse. I know I’ve been a pain but…” Mickey smiled weakly, “I gotta ask one last favour… you know what it is?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, I trust you with it.” Mickey’s smile faded and his breathing became shallow. With one last affirmative nod, he closed his eyes, and with a shaky breath steeled himself for what he knew would follow. Angela, now brave enough to turn and look at the man without feeling the urge to get sick, could not fathom what he could be waiting for. Walking forward, spurred on by her passion to aid people, she attempted to inspect the wound herself— perhaps she could help, she was a doctor after all.
McCree’s arm stretched out, barring her from coming within range of his friend. He was mourning, in his own way; getting a last look at the man he survived with in a relentless world for weeks. Still gripping his revolver, he moved to cock the gun, pointing the weapon at a dying Mickey. Before Angela could react, he pulled the trigger— sending a white hot bullet into his friend's forehead. The force of the projectile threw the man's head back— and then all was still.
“It’s done.” McCree holstered his weapon, tipping his hat in one last goodbye he reached down to grab Mickey’s backpack, then stood and turned to a shocked Angela, offering the equipment, speckled with blood, to her.
“Better leave before more get drawn by the noise.”
“You just… shot him. Just like that.” Taking the offered backpack in a daze, Angela’s eyes were wide as they could ever be, fixated on the corpse of a man who had just been shot in the head and killed in broad daylight by another. She wasn’t sure if she could feel any more disgusted than she already was.
“He wasn’t gonna be a man much longer.”
“You murdered him!”
“I didn’t. Your friend here did.” Dusting off his poncho, McCree gestured to the nearby corpse— a rotting mess of bite marks and blood, putrid gore still leaking from where a chunk of its head had been taken off.
“Lets go, it ain’t safe here.”
Angela pushed through the flimsy wooden door after McCree, surprised at how well-furnished a small shack in the woods was. She spied a radio spitting static nearby, boarded-up windows, and two bunks. It became evident to her that McCree and the other survivor ‘Mickey’ had stayed there for a time.
“I’m… sorry about your friend.” She said finally, placing her backpack on a nearby chair.
Lighting up one of his cigars with a match to calm his nerves, McCree shrugged, feigning nonchalance despite the wetness building in his eyes, “It’s what happens in this world now, just gotta live with it.” Placing his own backpack by his bunk, the cowboy moved to shove a heavy cabinet in front of the door, barricading it.
“This world…” Angela repeated, sitting herself down on the other bunk. She was still confused, disoriented, unsure of what to make of the environment she now found herself in. Suddenly, all the ‘zombie’ gossip relayed to her by Vito clicked into place. How many weeks of the apocalypse did she spend in complete ignorance under government protection?
“Guess you really don’t know, then.” McCree took a puff of his cigar, sitting across Angela in his own makeshift bunk, “World’s overrun by these things... these 'walkers'. The goddamn living dead. Can’t begin to tell you how much was lost in just a damn week.”
Something in Angela’s mind told her that she had to believe what she saw, no matter how her logical thought process attempted to suggest otherwise. The ‘human testing’, being kidnapped and trapped by the government, then being forced to work on a 'cure' without so much as a single piece of information on how it affected people. As Jesse spoke about the world as it was, Angela found herself dreading the very thought of being alive and attempting to survive. A darker part of her wished she never left the intended grave that was her prison.
Whatever this pathogen was, it was already inside them— inside everyone. Death merely triggered its activation. The brain is hijacked, and humans become mere, flesh-hungry shells of what they once were. Angela listened intently, stopping McCree only to ask for clarification. His answers were less scientific than she would have liked, but it aided in her understanding nonetheless.
“— and if you get bit or scratched, that’s it. Fever hits you hard and fast, and you die… then come back as one of ‘em.” McCree stubbed out his cigar just as he finished relaying all he knew about the state of the world to Angela, his expression grim. The sun had set, and all that was left to light up the shack was a small candle. Reaching into his open backpack, the cowboy pulled out a packet of beef jerky and tossed it at Angela. She fumbled to catch it.
“Thanks,” The blonde muttered. She had forgotten the emptiness of her stomach, and dug into the food gratefully. Too much had happened in too short a time, and she struggled to process it all. Still, at McCree’s insistence, she began to tell him all that she knew of her own limited research between bites.
“… Smart move by the mighty government, puttin’ the brightest minds in the country in one place for the end of the fuckin’ world. I’m bettin’ my foot they all got slaughtered in there.” The cowboy grunted, clearly frustrated. It didn’t take a genius to note that McCree’s frustration at authority came from more than just the government’s inability to handle a virus, but Angela felt it unnecessary to pry.
“So,” She changed the subject, re-energised by the food. “Where will you go now?”
The cowboy removed his hat to rest it by his bunk, then turned to poke at the radio playing static nearby, adjusting its frequency as though attempting to have Angela listen to something on the air. She met him with a curious gaze. “Gimme a second.” He grumbled, cursing quietly at the old radio’s resistance. After a solid minute of tuning, a commanding man’s voice cut through bursts of static.
“—ford safe—use belongs to th— dead. I repeat, Stratford Safehouse belongs to the dead. Do not —nter the city. Survi—ors picking up—essage proceed to Camp —wind at following coordinates. —essage set to —epeat.”
The voice repeated itself, once again interrupted by strong bursts of static interference. The radio simply was not strong enough to pick up the entirety of the message. Angela sighed, feeling a week’s worth of stress and tiredness weigh on her ability to think. Picking up on her exhaustion, McCree smiled the first unrestrained smile Angela had seen on the man. “Don’t worry, I've been mullin’ over this damn message for days, managed to pick up the whole location from it." He turned the radio off.
"Full day’s walk from here, assumin' the horde's moved on."
The blonde doctor smiled back: her own first genuine smile in a long time, and nodded in appreciation.
“Thanks for everything, Jesse.”
“Nothin’ to it.”
They arrived early evening the next day, feet hurting from quiet hours of dodging and occasionally putting down the dead. Angela, relying on faith that Jesse McCree was a man of honour and integrity, quietly followed him and counted on his skills for survival. She herself was unable to kill the living or the ‘dead’. Occasionally the two engaged in casual conversation about the past, each prodding for morsels of information without overstepping their bounds. Turns out, there was never any need. Their parents had passed long ago before the virus took hold of humanity, and neither had any family or friends to speak fondly of.
The rest of their trip was spent in silence, and as the sun began to set on the horizon, the pair of survivors— backs and legs sore from their trip— came upon a fortified area in the woods: An abandoned lumber mill with rudimentary but effective defences. Large pillars of wood planted stiffly into the ground circled the mill, their top ends sharpened into pointed spikes— all connected to a flimsy sheet metal gate. Makeshift guard posts and watchtowers were fashioned roughly from the same wood, and atop one such watchtower, standing just above the lumber fence was a young, dark skinned man no older than twenty-six.
As they approached, the man stood more alert than before. He had bags under his eyes, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and a pair of broken headphones around his neck. Somewhat clumsily, as though still unaccustomed to holding it, he raised his weapon at the newcomers.
“Look, I’m sorry about this, but I can’t let you through,” He said, aim trained on McCree and Angela on their approach. There was a sadness about his voice that the blonde took notice of: He was young, but already looked as though he had seen the worst the world had to offer.
"Turn around. Please.”
“We heard your message on the damn radio, ain’t here to fight.” McCree raised his arms in surrender, prompting Angela to do the same, “We’re just here to survive.”
The man didn’t answer. If anything, he seemed conflicted. After seconds of agonising tension and silence, he lowered his weapon and turned to shout into the camp: “Jack! Gabriel! I got a pair of survivors here, one woman. Says they heard the broadcast!”
An unintelligible shout came back from the centre of the camp, and the man lowered his weapon eagerly, ecstatic that there hadn’t been the need to utilise it. “Welcome to Camp Fairwind! Gimme a sec, I’ll get the door for you.” He smiled in relief, and disappeared from the watchtower. The change in his demeanour was drastic and unexpected, but not at all unwelcome.
“Seems a good sort of kid.” McCree commented, arms relaxing. His voice sounded gruff and tired from a day’s worth of travel. Angela could tell the man was exhausted, having been on the road longer than she had. Seconds later, the metal gates of Fairwind swung open, revealing the dark skinned guard from before and two older men. Angela noted the hardness in their eyes: They were embattled soldiers of this new world, and likely veterans from the old.
“Catch up with you guys later, I gotta check up on Hana!” The guard excused himself quickly, darting towards an old building further in the camp. In the background, a dozen weary survivors wandered sluggishly through the grounds, milling about devoid of hope or conversation.
The two men blocking the entryway were older, sporting old and faded scars from before the disease made itself known. One had a full head of white hair and a face positively covered in deep, permanent marks. The other was dark skinned, also facially scarred— but to a less noticeable extent. There was an air of tension between them that both Angela and McCree noticed in their approach, and the cowboy’s shoulders tightened as they came to greet him.
“Welcome to Fairwind, I’m Jack, this is Gabriel.” The white-haired man powered through introductions sloppily, neither asking nor caring about their names. As he continued, his voice remained rough, his tone unfriendly.
“We’re here to let you know that if you’re from the same group of jokers that shot Bracken and his wife and kids… I’m killing you where you stand.”
In a mere moment Angela and McCree found themselves staring down the barrel of a rifle and a shotgun— the two men drew their weapons on them so quickly they failed to find even a second to react.
“I told you the damn broadcast was a stupid idea.” The man known as Gabriel said, shotgun trained steadily on Angela’s face.
“Yeah, well that was before I learned that you can’t trust anyone in this world. Didn’t hear you give any bright ideas.” Jack bit back, squinting as the tip of his rifle was mere inches from McCree’s forehead, “Lúcio wouldn’t have shot you, but don’t think we’re so lenient, cowboy.” He warned, index finger hovering over the trigger.
McCree was at a loss for words, stunned into silence by the hostility. Angela, staring down the barrel of a shotgun, then found a courage within her to speak.
“I’m... my name is Angela Ziegler, a doctor. My friend Jesse and I are alone, we’ve been traveling. We mean you no harm.”
The two older men hesitated. Lowering their weapons they exchanged worried looks with one another.
“A doctor.” Gabriel huffed in disbelief, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder casually, “In this neck of the woods? I don’t fucking believe it.”
Jack, still holding onto his rifle, paused for a moment, his experienced gaze scanning every little detail on Angela and McCree, “We have sick and injured, if you think you can help…” He was quieter now, neck craned towards the small, derelict building in the distance that the guard from before disappeared into. Evidently, he was still suspicious of their intentions, but it seemed the lives of survivors in the compound were more important to him— and the sight of it warmed Angela’s heart somewhat.
“Look,” McCree interrupted, finally finding his words, “Confiscate our weapons if you want, but we’ve lost too much gettin’ here— the least you could do is let us in.”
Following a brief, quiet period of deliberation between Jack and Gabriel, the two survivors were allowed entry into the encampment, joining the larger group by the lumber mill. The rest of the survivors milled around aimlessly, as if moving only to survive— but not truly to live. Angela noted several shallow graves on the side, small mementos— rings, necklaces, and shirts— had been placed on each mound of disturbed dirt: a makeshift cemetery of sorts. By the looks of it, the graves were only recently dug.
“Look at this place, can’t count them among the livin’, they're all just waitin’ for death.” McCree shook his head, moving to his and Angela’s assigned tent. As they moved, the other survivors regarded them coldly or not at all - their stares painted with both fear and disgust.
Reluctantly, Jack and Gabriel gave them ‘Bracken’s’ tent— not that the two knew who ‘Bracken’ or his family was. McCree, despite his exhaustion, wandered off from the tent upon tossing his pack onto the floor, claiming a need for ‘fresh air’. The poor man had been through too much alone, and was clearly conflicted as to whether joining a larger group was the right idea, given their less-than-stellar reception.
Angela too found herself drained as she stood alone in the tent. Looking around, she noticed five cots within its space: cleaned of all belongings. Before she could rationalise what had happened to the people that came before, a rustling outside caught her attention.
“Uh, new lady, you in there?” A familiar voice called out. Lúcio, as she remembered Jack referring to him, stood outside, an awkward smile plastered on his features. “I’m sorry about the welcoming… it’s just… we’ve been through some things, you know? I heard you were a doctor, and I could use some help.”
At his insistence Angela brushed open the tent door, and came face to face with the gate guard again, headphones and gun still equipped. “I understand,” She said, doing her best to manage a smile. The doctor had only been traveling in this unforgiving new world for two days and was already feeling the weight of survival on her shoulders. She could scarcely imagine how it must have felt living in the open for weeks.
“Oh… good, good.” Lúcio’s smile turned from awkward to bright in a second. Even with a lethal weapon on his back the man had a way of expressing his gratitude that made Angela forget the worries of the world. He was cheerful… hopeful even, in stark contrast to other survivors in the camp. “A-Anyway, I know you’re tired and everything but uh, I just wanted to let you know that there’s this girl—” Angela watched as Lúcio gripped the hem of his shirt until his knuckles began to pale, “— and it’s bad… She’s getting sick. I know I shouldn’t be prioritising some people over others but… if no one helps her now, I have a bad feeling.” He struggled with his words, the guilt that came from their implications seemed to eat him up.
Angela was without hesitation. Above all else, even amidst the death and chaos and mistrust, she was still a doctor— and that fact alone she expects will never change.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The designated ‘medical bay’ was sparse— a converted administration building filled with makeshift beds and stocked with first-aid kits looted by scouts. Several of the beds were covered with a generous coating of dried blood— stains on the floors and walls and spent bullet casings told the rest of the story. Others were occupied by the sick or injured, too weak to even acknowledge her presence. Angela winced as she passed by, worried that she will not be able to save them all. Following Lúcio across the room they came upon a small cot, upon which lay a young girl, perhaps Lúcio's age, still as a corpse.
The young man rushed to her side, hands gripping the edge of the bed. It took him a moment to make sure the girl was still alive, and he relaxed upon seeing her open her eyes to the noise in the room.
“Hana, I brought a doctor, a real doctor. You’re gonna be fine, like I promised.”
“Damn straight,” The girl laughed weakly, “I’m too young to die.” She spoke with absolute confidence, but one look at her would tell anyone otherwise. Hana was pale, paler than she should be— a fever, Angela concluded, placing a hand on the girl’s forehead to feel her temperature. She had a bad wound on her arm, but before Angela could ask its origins, her train of thought was derailed.
“It’s not a bite or a scratch, I know what the people around here think, but I wouldn’t let any of those things get to her.” Lúcio insisted, wedging himself between Angela and the cot, “We were running for our lives from these guys, living dudes, and one of them caught her on the arm, so before you even begin suggesting we put a bullet in her head I—”
“It’s likely early stages of blood poisoning.” Angela interrupted, hoping to save Lúcio from becoming a nervous wreck. Having inspected the wound, she knew that no human bite or scratch would leave such a jagged mark. The bandaging, however, could use some work. “There’s no need for a gun.” She smiled reassuringly, ushering him aside so as to begin treating Hana’s injury.
A moment of silence, and Angela watched as both Lúcio and Hana relaxed in her presence, seemingly happy that someone was willing to attempt treatment as opposed to simply offering to kill the girl out of ‘mercy’. Slowly but surely as she cleaned the wound with the available supplies, the two young adults began to open up to her.
“We were walking back from a concert when it started, or ended, I guess.” Lúcio said, leaning against a wall to give Angela space to work, “Sirens, screams, soldiers in uniform urging us to evacuate. It was chaos. Some people got trampled… and then they woke up again.”
Although fixated on her work Angela listened intently. Lúcio and Hana were young friends with barely a year apart between them, their careers as musician and professional gamer respectively only just took flight before the outbreak ended life as they knew it. Now, they had only the dead waiting for them at home— all they were familiar with lost in days. They spent a week traveling from their city to Fairwind, relying on the surprisingly useful skills Hana gained from video games for their survival.
“Our reception here was warmer though, things haven’t been the same since we lost Bracken and his family. It's hard to trust people these days, but you're alright, doc.” Lúcio thought aloud, scratching the stubble growing from his chin. The story stopped soon after that point, with neither Lucio nor Hana willing to divulge further detail.
Angela looked up from Hana’s wound, having treated it to the best of her ability. It seemed antibiotics would be needed for the girl to make a full recovery— and she doubted that they would be able to find any in the rudimentary kits that had been looted. She opened her mouth to question them further in hopes of finding some other method of treatment, “So, this wound—“
She was interrupted by a loud creaking noise, followed by a jangling of chains: The gate to Fairwind was once again open, and shouts from within the camp could be heard.
“Hunters are back, guess my break’s over.” Lúcio shook his head with a smile, and turned to get one last look at Hana and Angela before hurrying out the door, pulling the rifle from his back presumably to return to another shift as gate guard.
“He’s a good kid,” Angela said to herself, confirming McCree’s earlier observation and forgetting Hana’s presence for a moment to lament Lúcio's lot in life. He was a man too bright for this world whose music could have moved millions— now forced to live in an environment that could turn any moral man into a monster.
Hana, shifting in her cot, giggled quietly at the comment. “He is, isn’t he? Always one of the brightest ones in the camp…” She resisted an urge to scratch her freshly bandaged arm, “I should be out there with him, trying to make the world a better place, y’know? We were always the dream team.”
It was admirable, Angela thought, giving Hana’s head a reassuring pat. “I’m sure you'll be out there before long,” She lied, hoping that antibiotics would be found soon. In such an unclean location, the chances of Hana recovering without a serious infection are slim— but she had no desire to stomp on the hope of one so young, not when there was a chance of finding medication to aid her.
As she reached over to give the freshly bandaged wound a second inspection, the door to the medical bay swung open again, revealing the towering figure of Jack in the doorway.
“ Lúcio said you were here uh, doctor…?” His voice trailed off, clearly having forgotten her name.
“Angela Ziegler.”
“Right.” He nodded, one hand gripped hard against the door frame, “We have injured from the hunting expedition, and as you can see a lot of injured people in here. If you want to stay, we need you to pull your weight. No negotiations.” With a grunt goodbye, the old man left, stomping away as rigidly as ever and leaving the door to the building to close on its own.
And the blonde doctor found herself absolutely speechless.
“Don’t worry about him, dad’s like that sometimes.” Hana broke the silence to dispel the tension, smiling through her own pain to convince Angela of the camp commander’s good intentions.
“He’s your father?” Angela turned to look at Hana incredulously, still taken aback from Jack’s less-than-polite way of asking for her cooperation.
The younger girl laughed at the question and shook her head. “No way, but…” Her laugh faded, “When I got here he told me I reminded him of his daughter, and that he lost her early in the outbreak.” Hana paused, a smile both sad and sweet on her features.
“So I call him ‘dad’, I think it helps a little.”
“You know, it probably does,” Angela replied, “More than you might think.” Giving Hana a reassuring pat on the head she left the medical bay, pulling the door open to a group gathered by a freshly lit campfire: A small one for over a dozen people, but none dared to make it bigger in fear of attracting the dead to their camp.
“— And Fareeha picked me up, put me on her shoulder and cut a path through the forest, walkers all around us! I swear, it’s true!”
A rather loud girl with a British accent sat surrounded by other survivors, their faces uncharacteristically lit up with smiles and occasional laughter at her story. She was bright and bubbly— energetic as Lúcio was— perhaps even more so, as though the dangers of the new world failed to affect her at all. Even Jack and Gabriel dropped their solemn expressions to partake in the social activity, both men giving small smiles as the girl propped herself on a log by the fire, hands waving animatedly whilst she told her tale of survival and heroism.
“Not that I didn’t kill any myself, though!” She continued, “I’m a real hunter now, ain’t I, loves?”
“More like Fareeha killed them for you, right?” Lúcio was several feet away from the girl, clearly enjoying her return and basking in the energy she seemed to radiate from her very being. From the sidelines, McCree watched with interest, daring to show a faint smile at occasional points in the story. The cowboy seemed out of place, and other survivors in the camp were wary around him as they were around Angela.
“Lúcio, would I lie to you?” The loud girl feigned hurt, pressing a hand to her chest as though her heart had been broken by an accusation of dishonesty, “I am positively shattered by your lack of trust, love.”
“I’m sure the new doctor can piece you back together. Either way, you’re still a junior scout in my eyes, Lena.” Lúcio snarked, casually waving at her as he turned and made his way back to the watchtower with another shift’s worth of guarding ahead of him.
Lena’s eyebrows arched upwards quizzically, but was unable to inquire on the status of a ‘new doctor’ before Gabriel spoke up, putting a hold to her storytelling. At his side was the ever-serious Jack, arms crossed in a commanding position but still sporting a ghost of a smile.
“Where did the rest of the group go, junior scout?” Gabriel asked, giving the cheerful girl a pat on the shoulder. Even a man like Gabriel, grim as the reaper, had to loosen up around her. She had an aura that was infectiously positive. Lena stuck her tongue out at the nickname, and gestured to a group still huddled by the main gate, all choosing to stay away from conversations by the campfire.
Angela’s eyes followed Gabriel’s and Lena’s, and soon her gaze rested upon the group: able-bodied people— the ‘hunters’, as they were referred to, were armed to the teeth with weapons both improvised and otherwise. There were no more than nine of them, eight of which were dressed in remnants of what looked like military uniforms, speaking in hushed tones to a small, older woman. She had, Angela noted, a strict maternal air about her that others seemed to recognise as she held a disapproving finger up at one of the men. From afar, it looked as though a mother was chastising her children.
“Curious about the hunters, love?”
Angela jumped, suddenly aware of Lena’s breathing on her neck. She whipped around, surprised by the girl’s audacity in approaching a stranger.
“You scared me,” She breathed, exhaling a sigh of relief. The blonde watched as Lena took a big step back, sly smile plastered on her features.
“Not as much as Jack scared you coming in, probably.” The girl replied, meeting Angela’s accusatory gaze with a bright one, “Hiya! I’m Lena Oxton, and I’m guessing… guessing…” She placed her index fingers on her temples dramatically as though psychically reading Angela’s mind, “— that you’re the new doctor! I’m right, aren’t I? It’s definitely not the scruffy one. No one mentioned you were cute though— big misstep on their part, that.”
And all of a sudden Angela found herself laughing with the girl. Her happiness, her joy, her sense of humour— it was truly an infectious disease, yet it was one she felt happy to catch, “It’s refreshing to know that my looks haven’t faded,” She went along with the joke, “The zombie apocalypse gives quite the makeover.”
“Don’t let Jack catch you saying ‘zombie’, or you’ll be in for an eye-roll.” Lena took the opportunity to give Angela a real up and down, smile never leaving her face. If anything the doctor’s presence was refreshing for her: finally, someone else who had yet to lose their ability to laugh at the little things.
“Don’t call it the walker-pocalypse either though,” She added, “I think Gabe’s still reeling from that one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Angela said, glad to have made another potential new friend in camp. The thought of having pleasant company helped her overcome the thought that she may be stuck in this encampment for the rest of her life— if she were lucky enough to not be devoured alive. “So,” She continued, “About the… ‘hunters’, you called them?”
Against all odds, Lena’s smile grew to nearly bisect her face, “That’s them! I mean, that’s me too.” She moved to stand next to Angela with pride swelling in her chest, “Took me a while but I think my survival skills are shaping up for it.”
By the gate, the nine hunters were still gathered— somehow, their discussion turned heated, and both Lena and Angela watched as one of the men stormed off from the group, waving a hand dismissively at the older woman. He disappeared into one of the tents, and the group resumed talking soon after.
“We’re um, a good bunch,” Lena said, gaze lingering worriedly on the tent the man had disappeared into, “Ana keeps us in check most of the time.”
“Ana? She seems rather…”
“Old? Don’t let her fool you, she could knock anyone on their arse.” There was nothing but admiration for the older woman in the girl’s voice as she and Angela continued to observe the hunters. One by one, they began to retreat from their conversation, eventually leaving Ana and a woman who looked strikingly similar to her by the gate. The air surrounding the conversation lightened, and Angela found herself staring at what looked to be a much younger version of Ana: almost like a clone from the past.
“And that’s Fareeha, Ana’s daughter.” Lena guessed who Angela was staring at. With a smirk on her face, she leaned over to whisper into the blonde's ear, “She’s really popular with other survivors. Some have even asked her to um… repopulate with them.”
“I can see why.” Angela noted absent-mindedly. Upon noticing that she had accidentally expressed her thoughts aloud, she quickly attempted to correct herself.
“I mean, her anatomy would suggest that yes she would look quite appealing… to others… and that her offspring would be fit.”
Hearing Lena laugh painted her face in a bright crimson, and seeing that only made the young girl laugh even harder, “You’re right about that, newbie! Grab her before she’s gone!” Giving a very red Angela an encouraging pat on the back, Lena skipped off merrily, happy that she was able to meet someone new she could talk to.
“A big pile of squirrels and a deer,” Gabriel inspected the food brought back with pride. The haul had been laid out on a table neatly by members of the hunting group— the group that he personally formed with Ana’s cooperation despite initial protests from Jack. Crossing his arms, he turned to give the nearby camp commander the most smugly infuriating smile he could manage.
“And you said the game in this forest was lost to the dead.”
“That I did. They eat warm bodies, Gabe. Doesn’t have to be human.” Jack stood across the table, physically inspecting the game for bites. “This is only just enough to sustain everyone. We can’t go on like this… but not all of them can hunt or even swing a fist. I worry they won’t make it for another month.”
Gabriel clicked his tongue in annoyance. Sometimes, Jack’s consideration for the less survivable members of their camp irked him. “Those who can’t survive in this world won’t no matter how much you coddle them, Commander Morrison. They will die. The less we attach ourselves to nameless soon-to-be-dead men, the better.”
The sound of his old title sent Jack reeling, and without hesitation he reached across the table to violently grab Gabriel by his collar, “Commander or not, they’re people, Gabriel. Our living people— maybe the only living people left in this world. They’re not soldiers and we’re not at war… not anymore.” He growled deeply to stop himself from continuing. Repressing memories resurfacing in his mind with some difficulty, Jack's grip on the other man’s collar loosened.
“Have you seen what’s outside the gate lately? It’s definitely a war out there, boy scout. Doesn’t matter who or what we’re fighting, fact of the matter is we’ve all been drafted.” Feeling the hold on him loosen, Gabriel tore away roughly, straightening the collar on his jacket. Upon his face was a disapproving scowl, but his eyes spoke of more understanding than he let on.
“The most we can do is surround ourselves with people who want to fight this as much as you and I do.”
Deep down Jack knew Gabriel was right. Gruff, tough, and cold as he may be Gabriel was always the realist— a man who knew at all times where he stood and never faltered from the best course of survival. Back in their days at the army, Jack resented him for his disregard for precious human life, but having survived with him for so long he knew Gabriel hurt as much as he did when someone was lost. He simply coped in a manner different to his own.
He was right. There was no use in mourning the fallen, and no practicality in trying to keep everyone within Fairwind’s walls from harm. The dead grow in number by the day, and the living can only get weaker as a result, “We’re all soldiers now, I guess.” Jack commented solemnly.
Gabriel nodded, his expression grave, and the rest of the inspection was passed in silence.
Angela was in the middle of inspecting Hana’s wound once again when they piled into the medical area: six fit men with bright eyes and bright faces— the blonde doctor recognised them from the earlier hunting group immediately. They in turn looked at the blonde as though she were a unicorn, immediately taken by her beauty.
“See!? I told you she’s real! Jack doesn’t even know how to ‘lie’.” One of the men said, nearly rushing to tackle Angela to the floor had he not been held back by another, “Come on, Khalil! I wanna see!” He whined, apparently forgetting the many patients resting around him.
Khalil gave Angela an apologetic look, then proceeded to playfully smack the overeager man over the head with an open palm, “World is dead but manners are not, Tariq. Control yourself.” He turned his attention to Angela, “Sorry, doctor. We mean you no harm, it is just very exciting to have someone so beautiful and intelligent with us.”
Tariq and the other men groaned. Leave it to Khalil to turn their blunder into an opportunity. Yet upon seeing no change in Angela’s features, a renewed hope blossomed within them as they all began to talk at once: Introducing themselves and peppering the doctor with compliments and questions about herself and her past. Hana, rudely awakened by the storm of eager men, turned over in her cot and pulled a thin sheet over her head in frustration.
Angela did her best to answer their questions, but as they inched closer she began to worry if she was ever going to be able to leave the medical bay without being coerced into a ‘date’. Even more so, she worried if Hana, pretending to sleep no more then two feet away, was going to die from the headache these men were undoubtedly giving her.
Khalil, Tariq, Okoro, Saleh, Aizad, and Mahmud: just about the only things Angela grasped from their torrent of introductions were their names and their job as hunters in the camp. They crowded her as though they had not seen a woman in years, and the blonde felt a fear rise in her as she continued to wonder what these men could possibly want from her other than to offer— what was the word Lena used? ‘Repopulation’.
“Children, behave.”
The medical bay doors swung open again, and in the doorway stood Ana and her daughter Fareeha— their commanding presence engulfed the room, and suddenly the men surrounding Angela backed off, each excusing themselves for their behaviour and filing out of the room, careful not to even brush against the two women on their way. Aizad alone regarded Ana with a heated glare as he left, and Angela observed that he came close to spitting at the woman’s feet had it not been for Khalil’s stiff grip on his shoulder. Ana graced the gesture with no response, ignoring the man’s presence even as he stormed off, her gaze locked ever forward.
“You too, Tariq.” Ana’s voice was stern and motherly. Staring down the youngest male of the group still in the room, she laughed at his childish attempts to hide next to Angela to avoid being ushered out. He gave one last sigh before retreating to join the other men, and as his shadow disappeared behind the door, Angela felt herself relax.
“They’re good men. Perhaps a bit excitable, but good.”
Ana, with Fareeha following silently behind her, strode through the medical bay with confidence unlike any other. This, Angela thought, was a woman forged from years of life experience: a woman who knew she was in charge, no matter how many people disagreed with her. “Hello, Doctor Ziegler, I’ve heard so much about you from so many people, and you've barely been here a day! I am Ana Amari, the last of the camp’s three leaders, and this is my daughter Fareeha.”
She paused, old but observant eyes giving Angela a good inspection, “It seems your arrival set all the tongues wagging… You’ve met Jack and Gabriel, I trust?”
“I was sooner acquainted with the barrels of their guns,” Angela’s answered truthfully, remembering her initial confrontation with two of the camp’s commanders. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the worry sprung up that Ana and her stoic daughter may do the same, and she was beginning to tire of being interrogated.
But what came from Ana was not another interrogation, nor was it an introduction to the weathered sniper rifle she had slung over her shoulder. No, instead the old woman took to laughing— like a grandmother during gossip at tea time she threw her head back and laughed heartily— something Angela did not expect people were capable of anymore, “Oh, is that right? Those two buffoons… I’ll give them a good talking to later.” Ana calmed herself by placing a hand on her chest, stifling further laughter. A few steps away, Fareeha regarded the entirety of Ana and Angela’s conversation with near-complete dispassion. Her eyes were trained on Angela, but what she could possibly be thinking behind that focused gaze was a mystery.
“What an abhorrent way to treat a lady coming through the gates,” Ana added, having completely drowned her urge to laugh again, “There may sometimes be reason for hostility, but we simply cannot go around pointing our weapons at everything that moves outside the gate.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are they so hostile?” Angela interrupted with a question that had been on her mind since she found the barrel of a shotgun trained between her eyes. She was sure it had to do with the death of a family, but knew little else.
From behind Ana, Fareeha tensed, her toned arms becoming ever more defined in the process. Eyebrows knit into a frown the younger Amari spoke in clipped and concise words.
“These days, the living are worse than the dead.” She said, and Angela noted how she spoke much like a soldier: wasting no words, betraying no strong emotion. There was a hint of regret in her eyes, but that too was snuffed out before it could become fully apparent.
“Ah, yes. Bracken and his family were good people,” Ana’s mirth faded, her voice becoming apologetic, “We buried them a week ago, but I suppose an incident like that stays fresh in people’s minds for a longer time. I’m sorry you caught the backlash, my dear. Many are still reeling.”
“Someone shot him?”
“He let them in, they turned around and held his family hostage.” Ana’s eyes rested on a nearby empty cot, its sheets still stained with red. A knife lay close by on the ground, also caked in dried blood, “It turned violent, and we couldn’t save them.”
Angela didn’t need words to understand what they had to do to a man and his children once they had been mortally wounded by the rogue survivors. There was no doctor, and they were unlikely to have had the resources to staunch bleeding at the time. Looking at the cot for herself, Angela could only imagine how it must have felt to have to put down an entire family, children included, to prevent more death. Nothing in an ordinary person’s life before could prepare them for such a horrible responsibility. As much as she abhorred this new norm of ‘mercy killing’, she could not bring herself to really blame those who chose to do it.
“I should’ve done something.” Fareeha said. The sudden intensity of her voice surprised Angela.
Ana, as though used to her daughter’s outbursts, closed her eyes tiredly at the input— her voice heavy with regrets of her own, “Fareeha, we’ve been over this. You… we couldn’t have known.”
Fareeha looked away, fists and jaw clenched so hard she may as well have been a perfectly carved statue. For a moment Angela could have sworn she saw tears gathering in the corner of the woman's eyes.
“No use dwelling on it now,” Ana replied with a sigh, dropping the subject matter entirely. When she opened her eyes again it was to regard Angela with the warmest of smiles.
“Your arrival here is a stroke of luck, Doctor Ziegler… Angela. I do hope you stay.”
“Damn,” McCree took a bite of his squirrel chunks on a stick, talking with his mouth full, “Why didn’t I think of hunting squirrel earlier?” He asked, his question not directed at Angela but rather himself. He tore into his meal as though char-grilled squirrel was the most luxurious food item he had eaten for weeks, stopping only to breathe and swallow.
Come to think of it, Angela thought as she watched the cowboy wolf down his meal, it was probably her best meal in a while as well. She tentatively brought her own squirrel-on-a-stick up to her nose, sniffing the rudimentarily cooked meat nervously. Was it cooked properly? Would she die from some sort of food poisoning? Her scientific mind immediately took her to the worst case scenarios, and she almost failed to react when McCree reached over to snatch the stick away. Jerking her share of food back, she glared at the cowboy with accusation apparent in her eyes.
“What?” He shrugged, waving his own half-eaten squirrel stick in the air, “Didn’t seem like you were gonna eat it.”
“I was— am— going to eat it!” Angela replied stiffly, finally daring to take a tiny bite out of the once-cute but now-cooked animal she had never once even thought of eating in her life. It tasted like any meat cooked over a bonfire: smoky but satisfying for her weary soul, if not a little gamey. Although, she mused silently, any meat would be able to lift her spirits right now, given her situation.
McCree scoffed. Finishing the last of his meal he spent the next few agonising minutes simply staring at Angela eating— lacking anything better to do. Outside, the bonfire continued to burn with muted intensity in the night, its dim light casting shadows over the fabric of their tent. Much of the chatter was quiet, but Angela could at intervals make out Lena’s voice and Lúcio's laughter.
“How’re they treatin’ you?” McCree asked suddenly, tuning in to the soft sounds of conversation outside their tent. He adjusted his cowboy hat to get a better view of the distorted shadows of other survivors dancing along the tent walls, the shapes flickering along with the flames of the small campfire. It seemed, to Angela at least, that he was beginning to warm up to the prospect of surviving with a larger group despite being treated like a criminal and an outcast.
“They’re good people,” She replied, taking small bites of her food at a time, “It makes me wonder who they were before all this.”
“As good a way to look at ‘em as any, I suppose.”
Without warning, a third familiar voice chimed in— although on a subject entirely different: “Cheers, loves! How’s the food?”
“Don’t suppose you could sneak some more for me, junior scout?” McCree asked slyly, leaning towards Lena’s shadow by the tent’s entrance, “You know, on the down low.”
“Not if you keep using that nickname, cowbaby.” Lena quipped. She dared not laugh too loudly in the night, but both McCree and Angela could hear the tone of mirth in her voice.
“But in all honesty I can’t, loves. Too many mouths to feed. I’m just making sure your share wasn’t too badly burnt… like the venison.”
“And whose ass do I have to butter to get me the venison instead?” McCree grumbled, prompting quiet giggles from both Lena and Angela.
“Trust me, the squirrel’s better.”
More grumbling from McCree, and Angela took it upon herself to thank the cheery girl for her concern, “The food is wonderful, Lena. Much better than I’ve had in the last week.”
The conversation went back and forth for a while longer, and Angela had just been about to invite the smaller girl in before she rushed off once again, bounding to the next tent to check on its inhabitants. She left the atmosphere of Angela and McCree’s living space temporarily free of tension and worry. Though neither expressed it openly as Lena would herself, they were grateful for the girl’s continued efforts to befriend and accommodate them when many others in the camp would rather hold them in eternal distrust.
Easing himself into his cot, McCree reached to pluck the cowboy hat from his head, “They put you on medic duty pretty quick, huh.” Laying down, he rested the hat gently on his face as one would a mask, readying for sleep.
“They were in dire need of a doctor.” Angela replied, settling in herself.
“I hope I can find a place here too, somehow.”
“I’m sure you will, Jesse.”