Chapter Text
Adjusting the scarf around his neck, making sure it was tight enough, the man crouched down and searched through the luggage, tossing items he didn’t find any interest in aside. Some old clothes, a toothbrush, some shampoo, a protein bar that expired a long time ago. After a thorough examination, he concluded there was nothing of value inside. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he got up, his back protesting after being bent over for just a small amount of time. Hitting it softly with his right fist, he groaned, the pain still present but dulled. Old injuries were hard to overcome, it seems.
Taking the time to look around, he noticed the sun was gently setting in the horizon, giving the sky a beautiful, orangy colour. Days were getting shorter and colder, and he should probably find a place to stay soon. Staying around so openly at night was never a good idea. Still, his eyes couldn’t help but wander around, taking in his surroundings. The abandoned car he had taken the luggage out of was rusted, tires flat, windows broken. A few others stood around, decrepit and morbid. Green had taken back its place in the scenery, weed growing stubbornly between the cracks in the road. On each side of it were trees, losing their leaves, the glow of the setting sun illuminating them like it was on fire. It was pretty, in a melancholic way. But the man had long stopped searching for beauty in this broken world.
Deciding it was time to go, he made sure his backpack was secured on his shoulders, checked his pistol and remaining bullets - 9 in total. He probably should find a gun store next, or he could be in serious trouble. His knife was nicely tucked in his belt, always ready to serve if shit hit the fan. Now ready to go, he got off the street and walked through the trees, staying near the road but out of sight if need be, attentive and quiet. He heard the faint sound of animals walking around, an owl waking up and hooting gently, the rush of water nearby. Taking his map from his backpocket, never stopping in his tracks, he glanced over it to pinpoint exactly where he was. It seemed he was near Hemmingford, a village in what was once Québec, Canada. Not that it mattered much nowadays, it’s not like frontiers stood after the world went into chaos. That would explain why everything he saw was in French. He could understand it just fine, his parents insisting when he was a kid that he learned it, saying how it could be beneficial one day. Well, they hadn’t been completely off on that one.
He was maybe an hour from the border, two and a half from the nearest town past it. Maybe he should try his luck over there. He would rather much prefer to stay up here - fewer people, infected or alive, were present in the cold French province than down south. But that also meant fewer resources, and Connor was running low. He needed to get new boots, a thicker coat for winter, and of course ammunition. And he knew that the last one was scarce in Canada. Which was a blessing 20 years ago, when the world was still ‘functional’, so to say. But not now. If you wanted to survive, you had to be armed, or you wouldn’t last very long, either run over by infected or killed by raiders.
Letting out a sigh, he made up his mind and changed course to go south.
The walk was calm, familiar. He didn’t encounter much, aside from the occasional squirrel running past him or the geese forming Vs in the sky, heading north for winter. This was a welcomed sight, to be alone with his thoughts. The man didn’t like people, and usually preferred to be alone, if he could.
By the time he arrived at a small town called Mooers, it was dark. Looking around for some kind of refuge, he saw multiple houses completely barricaded, no way of getting inside visible. On some walls, old paint greeted him with gruesome messages.
This is God’s punishment.
Don’t trust anyone.
He scoffed, amused. That last one resonated more with him than the first one.
Finally finding one house that wasn’t completely sealed off, he turned the knob, which was unlocked, his pistol in hand, and quietly pushed the door. His ears alert, he didn’t perceive any suspicious sounds. It didn’t mean it was empty though. Careful, he proceeded to check out every single room, closets and under beds included. Nothing. After deciding it was secured enough, he set himself in the kitchen, where he found a clean enough bowl and some old soup cans. There were expired from 10 years ago, but it was still better than going hungry instead. He wanted to ration what he already had - a couple of fall strawberries and bell peppers he had found as well as some jerkies that tasted like plastic.
As he ate his cold soup, swallowing it with no appetite, he emptied out of his bag what he had left on the floor, like he did each night. His map, his pistol and his knife never left his sides. His food stayed in a sealed container. He didn’t have the luxury of having utensils with him (other than his knife), but that didn’t really matter, because he was usually able to find some where he went - like in this house. He had a couple of matches, which he didn’t use often since they were so precious. His water bottle, half full. He should probably replenish it soon. At least it’s not like he would die of thirst anytime soon. One of the few benefits of the world ending was that nature took back its rightful place, and the environment had never been better. Rivers were usually a safe bet if you were thirsty, though it was always better to boil the water first (not like he had that luxury most of the time). His flashlight, the batteries running low - he took a mental note to search for some in this house. His bottle of medication, if he ever needed some. He hadn’t much, acetaminophen and such, but it’s not like he could differentiate medicine he found even if he wanted to. Ropes. A pair of socks and underwear. Soap, toothbrush, some toothpaste. A razor for his non-existent stubble. A thick blanket. And a 1994 american quarter.
He travelled light. He didn’t need much and could usually find what he was missing by looking around. He had become quite the scavenger over the years. And, he knew having a lightweight backpack was a survival necessity. His back (which was broken enough, thank you very much) didn’t need the extra weight every single day he wandered around. He could fit more inside if need be, since he had so little. And, of course, it was easier to run away.
Finishing his meal, he put the bowl in the sink, not bothering to rinse it. It’s not like running water was still a thing, and besides, no one would come yell at him for dirty dishes in the first place. Putting his stuff back in his bag, he changed rooms and went to the living room. Preferring to sleep directly on the floor, he found a clean spot and sat down, taking out his blanket. Laying down, he folded his coat to make a makeshift pillow and put his head on top. He was used to sleeping uncomfortably, and it was almost reassuring. It transported him to better days, when he was younger, still naïve and believing this twisted world could be kind to him again. He didn’t want to close his eyes though. Nightmares always plagued him as soon as he drifted into Morpheus’ arms. Nightmares of things that were, people he met who hurt him, or worse, of a time when monsters weren’t a thing yet. Those were the worst, because it reminded him that it existed once, but it was never coming back. Eventually though, his eyelids got heavy, having walked all day without stopping draining his energy, and he drifted into an agitated slumber.
“Mom, what’s happening?”, a 14-year-old boy asked an older woman, his eyebrows furrowed in worry, his gaze frantically searching around as they got out of the house.
The woman didn’t answer, simply took his wrist and dragged him along the pavement, like many other families were doing from what he could see in their neighbourhood.
“Keep moving Connor, we’re supposed to meet up with dad and Niles at aunt Amanda’s place”, she replied, her eyes trained ahead.
Nodding, the teenager wasn’t reassured as much. One moment, they were peacefully resting at home, Connor studying while he waited for his brother two minutes younger than him to get out of piano lessons, when his mom had barged into his room, looking hectic. She had grabbed his arm without a single word, forcing him to get out into the street, where he saw people panicking and running around, some packing up their cars with stuff, others simply walking down the street with nothing but their clothes on their back.
There was something definitely wrong here. He knew his mom tried to keep a straight face, not letting worry guide her footsteps, and she usually did a fantastic job at this, never letting any emotions get through. But he could see fear in the way her lips trembled, anguish in her eyes never staying in one place for long. Her own terror was slowly creeping up Connor’s back. He didn’t know what was happening, but every nerve in his body was screaming at him to run.
Just as he was about to open his mouth and tell her maybe they should go back inside the house, they heard a piercing yell up ahead. In horror, Connor saw a multitude of people rushing down the street, some out of panic, and others.. chasing them? He saw a man jump on a child, biting into her neck and ripping the skin open. An elderly woman ran as fast as if she was an olympic athlete, catching up to a teenager not that much older than him, the latter crying and tripping as she pushed him to the ground. Chaos was everywhere, and Connor was frozen in place, mortified.
The thing that made him move again was his mom tugging at his wrist, pulling him more forcefully this time. His senses coming back to him, he ran after the older woman, trying not to trip over his own feet. She guided them to her car in the street, searching her pocket for her keys. Once she had them, she unlocked the doors, pushing Connor to the passenger seat while she walked around to the other side. Too stunned to do much, he got in and closed the door, fumbling with the seatbelt to lock it in place. When he heard the driver’s door open, his head spun around, seeing her mom get in as well. But, just as she was about to close it, a hand sneaked in and grabbed her arm, yanking it backwards. He watched, fear keeping him in place, unable to react, as his mom yelled, having enough reflexes to turn around and give the intruder a kick, successfully making them let go long enough for her to lock the door close. Not one to swear, she let out a bunch of curses as her left hand grabbed the steering wheel, her other putting the keys in to start the engine. Connor noticed a bite mark on her wrist, but didn’t comment on it as they drove off, probably to aunt Amanda’s place.
Jolting awake from his nightmare, the now much older Connor gasped for air, his body trembling like a leaf as he sat up. His blanket had drifted off himself while he slept, his restless movement making it fall on the hard ground. He attributed his shaking to the cold he felt, though he knew it wasn’t the only reason.
It was common for him to dream of that fateful day, seventeen years ago. Being only fourteen years old himself, he hadn’t really understood at first what was happening at the time. He already knew though that things would change inexorably, even if not all the puzzle pieces had been assembled yet.
In the end, they never made it to aunt Amanda’s place. After two hours of driving, her mom had started acting strange, her hands spamming, her eyes unfocusing, foam coming out of her mouth. She was slowly turning into an infected. Not that he knew it at the time. People usually turned between two to twenty-four hours after being bitten; her mother had been a fast one to turn. As they had driven down the abandoned country road, she had lost control of the car, making them crash into a pole. She had been ejected, forgetting to put on her seatbelt herself, and her body had broken on contact as she hit the ground a few meters away.
Connor knew now that the accident probably saved his life. If she had turned later that day, she would’ve probably bitten him too. Even now, he wasn’t sure if he was glad she died that way. On one hand, he had survived. But after everything he had to go through and endure, he wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
Pushing down the unpleasant feeling trying to make its way into his heart, he laid back down and reached for his knife, holding it tightly between his fingers. When he finally drifted off to sleep once more, the sun was almost rising, leaving him a few hours left before he had to move again.