Chapter Text
Rain hits the windows like a symphony. It’s sweet, chiming continuously despite the hollow taps like a growing thrum. Stray drops race one another down and out of sight with a pale fog growing on the edge of the glass. So haunting with the grey that consumes the outside world as if everything was beginning to freeze over, to set like fresh concrete. It was something that Imogene loved more than anything. It’s why she sits by the window with her eyes taking it all in; admiring it as much as she desperately needs it to combat the vicious storm raging in her mind.
“Quiet tonight.”
Imogene doesn’t turn around at the sound of her grandfather’s voice. It is so familiar in its heavy twang and the rich warmth that only hot chocolate could hope to imitate. His voice comes from over her shoulder, from the armchair that he loved so dearly for being perfectly nestled between the cool window and the warm fireplace. The armchair he’s had since before her mother was born. When Imogene doesn’t respond she can hear her grandfather shift this way and that to get comfortable once more.
“Ya read any good books fer class, Dove,” he tries again.
Imogene stares at her reflection in the fogging window from her pale blonde curls to the misty grey of her eyes. Eyes that can see a room full of seats with students diligently flipping through thick, heavy tomes. The road outside was replaced with heads bobbing along as they chatted while pencils noisily worked against paper. Imogene avoids looking at her slightly pointy ears peeking out from beneath the messy hair she keeps up in a ponytail. Those very ears are filled with muffled laughter that kept her up at night. Her freckled skin paler than usual as she gnaws on the inner edge of her bottom lip so that the pain is only a distant thrum. She unconsciously scratches at her knees through the thick fabric of her jeans, at the paling and thinning material from overuse. Once more, she does not answer.
“Y’enjoyin’ yer classes, at least,” Grandpappy asks, voice a little louder but no less gentle.
Her head shifts left rather than right before she catches hints of her grandfather in the window’s reflection. Skin leathery from years in the sun without protection and dark eyes peering back at her. His visage is surrounded in a halo of white thanks to his thick hair and mustache catching the light off the fireplace. His hair has been that way for as long as Imogene can remember. She was always the closest with him out of everyone in the family. The sight of him made the laughter quieter and quieter till she could find her own voice in the midst of the silence left behind.
Imogene gives a sluggish nod, “...Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”
“That’s good! This is fer yer, uh, teachin’ dream, yeah,” Grandpappy asks leadingly.
She hums, “Can’ really be a school teacher without it.”
Her grandfather chuckles, always amused whenever Imogene is a bit sarcastic or sassy. He doesn’t acknowledge what she says anymore and stands up from his chair. Walking idly towards the small table near the fireplace where her grandmother’s old gramophone sits. She can hear him carefully flipping through some of the different records that sit in the box beneath the table--her grandparents had collected many over the years. When Imogene closes her eyes she can practically see the ever growing collection of Bob Dylan, Michael Nesmith, Frank Sinatra, Neil Young, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, and seemingly hundreds more artists that the two loved. She opens them when he grunts and pulls out his chosen record.
“Imogene, honey, can you come in here? I need a taste tester,” another voice calls out.
Imogene waits a moment. Blinking irregularly for a moment to try centering herself while putting her hand on the cold, wet glass in front of her. Watching quietly as she sees the heat slowly seep from her own hand to create a small outline of white. When she pulls her hand away from the glass it is to look at the shiny wet sheen that is left behind. Her mind flashes to a wet floor that is heavy with the smell of chlorine as the patter of footsteps that echoed in a grimy pool house. The mildew smell growing thicker and seemingly becoming sour with rot that makes Imogene’s mouth water--the coppery taste of bile threatening to build up.
“Imogene? Dove?”
A small trill rumbles out from the back of Imogene’s throat in acknowledgement. A noise that her Pappy had taught her. Standing up on somewhat shaky legs, the young woman practically towers like a transplant tree in a forest--a willow amongst redbuds. The blonde sways for a moment before walking towards the kitchen past her grandfather, the man placing a well-loved record onto the machine and starting it up.
There's a saying old, says that love is blind
Still we're often told, seek and ye shall find
So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind
Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet
He's the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret
I'd like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?
The rug seems to shift beneath Imogene’s feet. She catches herself just as she is about to go stumbling face first into the thick, shaggy rug or the rough carpeting around it. Her ankle twinges and her calves ache from the sudden tensing but she ignores it. Hearing Ella Fitzgerald’s melodious voice singing out ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ was always a song that her grandfather played whenever someone was going through something. Could be an illness, could be the death of someone close to them, or could even be a heartbreak--rare though it was. Both grandparents agreed that the song was really about hope and that hope was important in every situation.
“Coming,” Imogene calls out softly.
As Imogene moves she can see the silhouette of her grandmother standing by the stove. Her incredibly long hair tied in a series of thick braids as if she were Rapunzel. The older woman humming along with the music as the gramophone plays, her multicolored skirts swaying and her long cardigan of fun patchwork practically glows. It was something that Imogene loved the most about the different clothing that her grandmother had made. She decides to grab the one that her grandmother made for her after helping with whatever she needed.
“Come on, Dove! I need you to try this chili,” Granny insists.
Imogene sees Granny’s shadowed face begin to turn around when--
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
A quiet alarm rings out in the small, padded room where a single woman could be found inside. Her pale hair splayed out on her pillow in a mix of tight, thick curls and loose twists. She shifts underneath the patchwork quilt and, as she begins to really wake up, her hands grip it reverently. The panic racing through her veins is not only confusing but turning to a heavy grief that won’t be able to escape. So suffocating, so completely restrictive that she wonders if her heart will give out on her.
Imogene rubs at her eyes with a groan, “Gods above and Lords below… Just what about me is cracked enough to set an alarm?”
‘ Rise with the sun or you’ll find yourself lost in the speed of day .’
“I am, Pappy,” Imogene whispers.
Shoulders slowly rotate as she stretches out the kinks in her back. Imogene gives a low, suffering sigh as she stands and heads to the small chest where her clothes are kept; something that still vaguely smelled like home to keep her grounded. The hot weather was killing that smell, though. The heat of summer set in to instigate sweat till the air is thick with musk and worry has been eating away at Imogene’s mind, a worry of every smell evaporating overnight. The idea of losing this last piece of her family and past left a bad taste in her mouth. But no matter how worried she was about letting heat in, there was still the understanding that things would not stay pleasant forever. She had to leave her home to prepare for what lied ahead and that meant leaving occasionally. The idea was even more dangerous in the chaos that came with the dead rising.
‘ Don’t be afraid, dear .’
“I’m not afraid,” Imogene states adamantly, trying to reassure her mother.
‘ Be quick while the sun is high ,’ Pappy insists.
“I am. I will! I… I just need a second,” Imogene mumbles before she moves to the corner of her room.
There is a variety of candles, trinkets, preservatives, wood carvings, and more. All crowded together in little jars and sections to create an altar of sorts. Imogene quietly begins to repeat the name of Hermes over and over as she begins to light a few of the candles. Carefully, bringing the small wooden statue of the Godly messenger a bit more forward as she does so. Her hands are clasped in front of her to clutch the wooden rose charm that hangs from her neck as she tries to clear her mind.
Slowly she reaches her hands outwards towards the sky, palms open as she whispers, “Thrice-great Hermes, Prophet and Guide of Mankind, I give thanks for the wisdom and knowledge that you have shared with me. O Hermes Trismegistus, Herald of the divine and Teacher of the Wise, I beseech you to guide me on our journey towards the divine. May this journey bring more fortune upon me so that I may live to see tomorrow and tomorrow until I prove my worth. So that I… So that I may prove that all those sacrifices meant something..."
Silence.
The candle flickers twice.
‘ Alrigh’, it’s time to get back on track ,’ Pappy huffs.
Grandpappy huffs back, ‘ Don’ be snippy. Give her a second .’
“I must blow out this candle before I leave. Forgive me for this being so brief, Oh Protector of Heralds and Travelers,” Imogene apologizes as she bows her head.
Silence.
The candle flickers twice, once more.
Imogene raises her head and blows out the candle before whispering, “I place my trust in you. May it be done.”
Imogene gets up slowly. She always felt a bit light headed after prayer. At first, she thought it was some allergy to her candles or maybe even to the incense she occasionally burned. But she’d asked doctors and taken allergy tests to find no real issues. So, she mostly chalked it up to the over excitement she felt at being able to feel the energy of the Gods. It seemed like a needed penance, as well, since she often had to cut off her gifts earlier than she used to because of the chaos.
‘ Don’t be afraid, Dove ,’ Mama repeats.
“I don’t have to be afraid. I’ve done this before. I know the risks…besides, what could go wrong,” Imogene reassures them both as she puts on her shoes.
She then grabbed her favorite red camping bag before venturing out into the unknown. Things had started off normal. Keeping her footsteps light as she moved carefully down streets with her eyes scanning around as she went. Many of the stores were broken down and broken into from obvious ransacking before everything fully hit the fan. Imogene had tried to look through things, at first when she first started scavenging. But the most she found were toys or food that was trampled on in the chaos and even destroyed items that were ruined by blood. So, of course, she turns her attention to the small mom and pop shop that exists in a back alley. One that seemed to be created out of someone’s apartment.
‘ Food is important. You have plenty now but you need to get things that can be preserved easier ,’ Gran reminds her.
Mama adds, ‘ Clothes, too. You need to make sure yer keepin’ clean or you’ll get sick. Ya get sick an’ ya stay dirty will risk it bein’ for longer, too. ’
Pappy grunts, ‘ Check for good weapons, as well. ’
The door creaks open. The first thing that Imogene notices is that the shelves of the three isles are all crooked or fallen. A mess of trampled food and blood mar the floor like a crime scene with a foul smell of rot. It was obvious that there wasn’t much to see. She, however, knew that there were a few storage rooms within the apartment for different things. The owner, Laura, had complained to her back when things were normal about how annoying break-ins used to be before she did renovations. The problem was, despite the two being rather good friends, Laura wasn’t just giving out information about where her keys were kept. So the search begins.
BAM! BAM!
Of course nothing went as planned. Apparently Laura had been trying to defend herself from looters when things first started going to shit. At least, that’s what the scene appeared to be when Imogene found several people with bullets littering their bodies. There are a series of other wounds on them to show the level of chaos and violence that was a mini riot which likely broke out in the apartment store. Imogene found Laura’s half-eaten form left discarded in the corner by the undead looters that most likely turned and attacked. Imogene quietly tries to sneak back out, but is immediately cornered by the six walkers that rushed at her. Which is how Imogene ended up hiding in the storage room in the basement with these things fighting to break the door down.
Imogene whispers to herself as she presses hard into the door, "Oh yeah... ‘What could go wrong’, huh? I’m apparently fuckin’ psychic because apparently everything! Everything can go wrong!”
BAM! WHAM! BAM!
"Persistent bastards...", Imogene grumbles as the door practically vibrates from the wave of assault.
Imogene looks around, unable to move just yet until she spots a desk nearby. With a trembling lip and twitching leg, Imogene sprints over to it before she preps herself to move it. Taking a big breath, she pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes. The carpet groans miserably at the movement till a scraping screech can be heard; the walkers become more ravenous as the thumping gets louder.
BAM! BAM!
"These things must be mind readers or somethin'. They get better at sensin’ my movements than my own Mama did. Swear to Apollo above that if these fucks get all primal bat or wolf sensin’ when I do somethin’ I’ll be royally screwed", Imogene grunts.
Slow, even breathes are the only thing settling her for this. She uses the thumps as a counter to amp herself up. Just gotta think of it like the stomping in ‘We Will Rock You’ and hope that the urge to sing it doesn’t take over because that will definitely attract more walkers. Imogene then looks around once more to see if there is an escape or something that she can take with her if she ends up just waiting for the undead creeps to finally tire out. Seeing boxes upon boxes stacked around the room were either half empty or filled with seemingly random utilities like off-brand toothpaste to defective hairbrushes. The sight makes her curse before she turns her sight upwards to see that there are in fact some windows higher up. Nothing too, too big but with some wiggling it would work. Walking forward, Imogene adjusts some boxes around for some extra lift to--
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Imogene jumps out of her skin at the very distinct gunshot going off. Her heart racing as she realizes that means there are more people near and dear god has it been a while since she saw people. There is a feeling of elation: having company, making friends, getting experiences that she’d missed out on, and living better. There was also fear: new dangers, new bullies, and new chances to be hurt like vulnerable prey. It was a terrifying but amazing chance that feels like a dream that’d go south at the drop of a hat.
‘
Don’t be afraid, Dove
,’ Mama whispers. ‘
Y’gotta go.
’
“I know… I… I’m going,” Imogene whispers reassuringly.
BANG! BANG!
Imogene shakes her head with a sigh before trying to carefully open up the window. It creaks, it groans, and then it slides open with a puff as if the entire room is sighing in relief. She grins before pulling herself up. From there it’s just following the path she’d laid out weeks ago. Red ribbons mean sharp right turn and then go straight; purple ribbon meant six paces to the left and then sprint diagonally; green ribbon was a sharp left turn and then to run straight; so on and so on. It didn’t make much sense to others that saw the markers but that was the point. Pappy said that it made it easier to confuse other hunters that might be interested in ‘swooping up your hunting grounds’. Quickest way to lose out on all the good prey, he’d often say.
P r e y
Grandpappy whispers, ‘ Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before .’
Her Granny’s voice is sweet and soft as she continues, ‘ The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends, and where the other begins ?’
It takes a second, but Pappy eventually recites, ‘ In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me .’
Her Mama’s voice, sweet and warm like butter, finishes, ‘ The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led. ’
P r e y
Imogene had always found that many of her favorite things were a little dark, a little twisted. It’s probably why her favorite poet was Edgar Allan Poe and why her favorite author was Mary Shelley because they faced so much death and loneliness. People that turned their tragedy into something beautiful. Imogene didn’t really know loneliness or despair like that, but her Grandpappy would thanks to his time in war.
P r e y
"Well, well, well. What have we here?"