Chapter Text
They haven't spoken for hours now and Shane is perfectly fine with that. Rick is a few feet behind him in the woods and he can't even look at the other man without seething. Their conversation from this morning is still a fresh, open wound between them and it takes everything Shane has to not turn around and tell Rick exactly what is on his mind. Why can't he see that this search for Sophia is a fool's errand? Rick knows how it is, how it was before the world went to hell...what makes him truly believe that little girl is still alive out here, all by herself?
Carl is on his feet, it's only a matter of time before he will be okay to travel again. Fort Benning is their best shot, there should be no arguing that fact. Sure, the Greene Farm is a pleasant break from their time on the desolate roads but there is no way that those barbed-wire fences will stop a large group of walkers. That coupled with the fact that the old geezer doesn't want them carrying loaded weapons on his property just spells trouble. What are they supposed to do against a real threat, dance with the fuckers?
"Shane?"
"What, Rick?" the younger man snaps venomously.
As angry as he is, Shane almost feels bad at the look that Rick gives him. Almost. He's been best friends with him for damn near three decades, he won't be able to give him the cold shoulder forever. He sighs resolutely, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his head roughly. Rick beckons him over and he complies without hesitation.
"Look, I'm sorry, brother---"
"Shane," Rick interrupts, pointing through the trees, "look."
Shane blinks, turning in that direction and is stunned to see a nondescript cabin, nearly overgrown with vines. By the look of it, it's probably been abandoned for years...until recently. Even from where they stand they can see the telltale signs of recent occupation. The entryway to the porch is clear, the only clue that anything is out of the ordinary being the even layer of dirt and grime from where foliage once was. Shane gives Rick an incredulous look, one that they share as a single thought comes to mind: Sophia.
With their weapons raised they approach the structure cautiously.For a moment it's like the good ol' days in King County and they're closing in on a suspect in hiding rather than searching for a little girl in the apocalypse. Their footsteps are silent and they rely on hand signals to communicate, on guard just in case what they find isn't what they want. Once they arrive in what could have been a yard, they discover an overgrown gravel trail leading east. Probably to the main road.
"These tracks aren't fresh." Rick observes aloud.
Shane nods, taking in the overgrown grass and dry mud with a trained eye. The weeds are parted, more than likely from a few bodies passing through rather than a single one, and the various shoe prints only confirm his suspicious. What he doesn't like is the obvious signs of a struggle: something---or someone---being dragged, and dried blood. The ex-cops share another look, this one grim with underlying fury. Something had gone down here and it hadn't been pleasant.
On the porch they find a couple of walker corpses, the heads completely smashed in beyond human recognition. Cigarette butts, broken bottles, and garbage from food long eaten litter the rotten planks and Shane sneers at the complete lack of regard. Rick beckons him to the front door where he stands with his python drawn, blue eyes expressing an unspoken plan. Shane takes a deep breath, shotgun at the ready, as Rick tries the knob. The door opens on squeaky hinges and they both wince at the sound that reverberates through the cabin.
Shane is the first to enter, stepping over chips of paint and dried leaves to make a clean sweep of the room. Rick comes in behind him, taking the lead and poking his head through the first entryway that they come across. A ransacked kitchen is the only other thing that greets them on this level. The two single rooms are in no better condition than the outside, old and stale with a thick earthy smell. The sun pouring in from the open door is their only real source of light, the vines comparable to curtains over the windows that allow only small slivers of light inside.
Blood and dirt appear scattered along the floor, a path that is impossible to follow but nonetheless leads them to a stone hearth where a stained, ratty rug lays. And more blood. Shane squats down by the fireplace, shifting around some of the ash and surviving logs with the barrel of his shotgun. He squints to see better when the light briefly reflects off of...something, something that clanks against the metal of his gun curiously. Catching sight of the object again, he forgoes any and all safety concerns to reach in and grab it.
He hears when Rick walks up behind him and Shane feels bile rise in his throat at what the tiny object is even before he blows the ash away, running a thumb over it's flat surface. Pants button. A pair of jeans, probably more clothing from the looks of it, was burned here. That and the obvious signs of struggle both point to one thing in the cops' minds. They back away from the hearth with vengeance in their eyes.
Ascending the lone staircase leading to the second floor, they open the first door that they come to with the professionalism of trained officers. A bathroom. Dingy, unclean, and completely empty. Light barely peeks from beneath two more closed doors, beacons in the otherwise dark hallway. They come to one doorway that is not illuminated---a closet, also empty.
The next to last room was once a cozy bedroom, the full-sized bed stripped of any sheets and pillows. The closet and drawers are likewise empty yet there are more obvious signs of recent activity. They can see from the increase of light into the hallway that the blood bypasses this room and goes straight to the last one. Rick and Shane stare at one another in the darkness, mentally preparing themselves for what they may find. Shane rests a hand on Rick's shoulder, his own lips set in a thin line. They both breathe deeply before Rick twists the handle and opens the door.
The smell is what assaults them first: blood, sweat, excrement, and sex billowing passed them like a toxic cloud and they both gag audibly, pulling the necks of their shirts up to cover their mouths and noses. Once again they are only able to communicate with their eyes and right now they mirror one another: furrowed, pained, disgusted, and just shy of glassy. Neither wants to look inside and possibly see the naked and abused body of a little girl, or anyone else for that matter. They wait for a minute or two before bracing themselves and pushing the door open the rest of the way. Completely bypassing any search for actual danger, two pairs of eyes instead are drawn to the queen sized bed in the center and the naked body that occupies it.
The source of the stench, the body, is doubled over itself both arms and the left knee bent to be tied together at the headboard with a nylon rope while the right leg stretched out and tied to the footboard. After the initial shock the two ex-lawmen are able to determine that the person is not the little girl they are searching for, but instead a full-grown man that they do not recognize. Entering the room warily, they are able to further examine the body, each internally dealing with the horror and brutality of the actions from what had to have been multiple men. He lays on his stomach, lower half propped up only by the forced contortion of his own body. Old scars litter his back, nearly blending with the new wounds of the same caliber, and where rope touches skin is painfully raw, caked with dried blood.
They don't even want to see the damage between his spread legs.
"Is he dead?" Shane is the one to ask and he misses the dark look that crosses Rick's features for a split second.
The man's skin, where not coated with blood or colored with bruises, is deathly pale. From where the man's body is partly raised, Shane can even count a few ribs and make out some that are broken. More blood stains the once-white mattress beneath his torso. Sick rapist sons of bitches. With his gun at the ready, Rick cautiously steps closer to get a look at his face. Dirty brown hair is gently pushed to the side and like a signal whistle the body explodes with life, thrashing and wailing like a creature not of this world. Both men jump back, startled with their guns raised, fingers on their triggers with the reaction to shoot. But it's blue eyes, wild with fear and agony, not inhuman with the hunger for flesh, that makes them pause and they stare at the bucking figure in disbelief. He's alive.