Chapter Text
Your feet are aching and the slash in your shoulder is still screaming from an encounter with some Infected several days ago. You haven’t seen a house or farm in over a week–not a viable one at least. A few isolated farms that had obviously been ransacked, all the supplies stripped from the kitchens, bathrooms, and bedrooms. And those that hadn’t been raided seemed to have met a worse fate; barns burned to the ground, stone crumbling from chimneys, red spray paint–and in some cases, a red hue you could tell wasn’t paint–covering siding and shingles. Messages of The Reckoning, doomsday shit. People panicking, scratching final testaments into the sides of their homes as if repentance would save them. You thought it best to keep moving. If a property looked lived-in, you’d stop, knock on the door, try your luck with whatever strangers were willing to open their doors to you. If the property looked like someone else had gotten to it first, you didn’t waste your time. As it was, it had been several days since you’d seen a mattress, cot, couch, or even a blanket that wasn’t the one you kept crammed in your rucksack, and sleeping on the forest floor has started to force the cold and damp into your bones.
You come upon a small clearing, and cautiously scan your surroundings. Stepping out of the trees carries risks; though the grass is tall, you know you’ll still be easily visible to anyone– or anything– lurking nearby. Satisfied that the coast is clear, you emerge from the woods. You’re at the top of a small hill, and as you look down into the gulch below, your face lights up.
A playground.
Small and rusted, abandoned for 28 years, but still standing.
You bound down the hill, all caution thrown to the wind for a brief moment until your feet land on the soft woodchips with a gentle crunch. You take it in, wandering around the small area– the metal slide, the tiny structures, the climbing frame, and at the far edge of the playground, a set of two swings. You dash over to them, feeling like a child for the first time in decades. You gently touch the chain holding up the swing, miraculously not entirely decayed by rust and mildew. You quickly shrug your rucksack off and drop it into the woodchips next to the post holding up the swings. It’s so stupid, but you can’t resist. You wipe the seat of the swing with your sleeve, dampening the fabric with the bit of dew that’s collected on the black rubber. You sit down, hands holding both chains, gently push your feet against the ground underneath you, and look around.
For one second, you’re 6 years old again, playing on the swing after school while your father pushes you.
“Higher, higher!” you giggle in your joy.
“Higher, love? You’d fly right up to Heaven, little angel!” your father laughs behind you.
“Higher, dad, higher!!”
You pump your legs faster, extending them straight in front of you and quickly pulling them back when you reach peak height until you’re swinging swiftly through the air, the wind blowing in your face and stinging your eyes.
“Come along, love, it’s time to go!”
“Push me again, Daddy!”
“Come on now, angel, we’ve got to get home, Mum’s going to be mad at us…”
“One more time, Daddy, please, please!”
Your father laughs, throwing his head back, silhouetted against the setting sun.
“Just once more then, yeah? Come on darling…”
You’re so high that you’re level with the bar every time you swing back. The tears gathering in your eyes streak down your cheeks. It feels like the wind forces its way into your lungs with each swing, burning in your throat but satisfying the demands of your blood as it pounds in your veins. You pump your legs again and again, letting every care in the world, every burden that you’ve shouldered for the last 28 years, slip away behind you as your hair whips into your face and you soar above the ground, weightless.
You don’t notice them lingering near the trees.
“Whatd’ya think, Sir?”
“Aye…excellent job.”
“Charity?”
“No…not for this one. Old Nick has…other plans for her…”
When you see a group of people running down the hill towards the playground, your heart leaps in your chest. Then you realize they’re not Infected. They don’t have the chaotic, flailing sprint of the Infected. They’re calculated, moving like a pack of wolves down the side of the hill. They’re all wearing brightly colored tracksuits and matching blonde wigs. The one remaining at the top of the hill, in a deep plum tracksuit, jaunts down with a playful, gleeful bounce. Obviously the leader of the pack. The alpha.
The people spread out, two of them on each side running in a wide circle around the playground.
You start to dig your heels into the ground underneath the swing, trying to slow down and stop yourself. They’ve got you surrounded now, four of them dotted around behind you, three of them coming to stand in an arc a few feet in front of you. The alpha walks at a leisurely pace as his clones post up and stare you down. You’ve stopped swinging; you could reach for your knife, but looking at their weapons– some of them are brandishing small pocket knives, some hold machetes, one even aims at you with a slingshot– you decide against it. Better to hear them out than to provoke them.
Purple Tracksuit saunters over to the swing next to you and sits down. You stare straight ahead, refusing to look at him. The entire situation is ringing every alarm bell in your head. You’ve been at this long enough to know that the Infected aren’t the only dangerous thing in this world.
“Hello,” the alpha says in a chipper voice. His accent is thick, almost comically so. You can tell he’s from the Highlands.
“We were just…passin’ through…” he continues, his gaze fixed on you. “And couldnae help but notice a…a wee thing like you, out here all alone.”
You finally glance at him. He smiles when you meet his eye, revealing his grimy blackened teeth. He’s not Infected; none of them are. But you recognize something in him that’s almost worse.
Desperation.
Opportunism.
Hunger.
“Now, I donnae mean to pry,” he grins. “But we,” he motions around at his minions, “are also travelers.”
He’s asking you a question without asking you.
“It must be…lonely…out here by yerself…”
You notice some of his clones glancing at each other nervously.
“I like working alone,” you say simply. The first words you’ve given him. One of his eyebrows shoots up, intrigued.
“Workin’ alone…and what, do tell, is the work that you do?”
“Same as you, I reckon. Wander about. Kill Infected. Survive.”
You kick at the dirt with the toe of your boot.
“Infected?” he asks, his voice raising with the faintest hint of surprise and amusement. “Oh, I see…”
You watch him nervously, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. The longer he and his freaks stay, the slimmer your chances of escape seem. You’ve calculated all the possibilities in your head. You can’t fight them all; not with the types and number of weapons they’re wielding. You do notice, however, that he doesn’t seem to be carrying one. At least not one that you can see.
“Jimmy,” he crows, loud enough for all of the tracksuit wearing copycats to hear. You wish he’d shut up; any sound louder than a hushed tone carries the risk of attracting Infected.
“Jimmy, we have found…a doubter.” The last word he says quieter, turning his attention back on you.
“Ah, fuck,” you chuckle under your breath. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them religious folks, thinkin’ this is all End of Days bullshit.”
“End of Days?” he asks, amused. “End of Days? No…no, this! This is the beginnin’!”
You wish he would fucking lower his voice. Your eyes dart around nervously, looking past his companions, scanning the treeline.
“The beginnin’…of my Father’s kingdom,” he holds his hands out, motioning to the world around him. “This is the vision He foretold to me…and Jimmy–”
He raises his voice again, and the clones all perk up. Are they all fucking named Jimmy?
“He has delivered unto me…a new vision…howzat?”
“HOWZAT!!” they all shout in glee.
Fuck. They’re being way too loud. Your breath is coming and going quicker in your lungs as your eyes scan the horizon, the way you trained yourself to do over the years. You try to block them out and listen for the snap of twigs or branches, the snarl of the Infected, but you can’t hear anything over their giggling and whispers. You notice one girl, in a blue tracksuit with raggedy blue fairy wings strapped to her back, is the only one not snickering. She’s just scowling at you.
“My Father has delivered us a doubter…a nonbeliever…”
“Told you, ‘s fuckin’ charity,” one of them hisses to another.
“Shut up,” the other replies. He’s wearing a black and white tracksuit.
“Better be fuckin’ charity,” Fairy Wings mutters. She’s holding a wooden baseball bat over one shoulder, the end of which has been chipped and dented from too many encounters with Infected. At least, you hope it’s only from Infected.
“Jimmima,” Purple Tracksuit chides. She snaps to attention, staring at him with enormous eyes. He looks around at them. “All’a yous…Jimmy says go play.”
With a tilt of his chin, he sends them bounding across the playground. You watch as some of them scamper off, running and chasing each other like children.
“It’s mine!”
“No, it’s mine!!”
“Darlings, if you can’t learn to take turns, we’ll go home…”
“No, Mum!”
“No, Mum, we’re sorry!”
“Now Lachlan, let your sister have a turn…”
Two of them– Black & White and Orange –sit atop the climbing frame, chatting. A boy in Black & Red swings from the monkey bars until he kicks another, a boy in Blue, in the stomach. Blue doubles over in momentary shock, then grabs Black & Red by the ankles and yanks him down to the ground, wrestling him. Green stands nearby, laughing.
“Children…behave yerselves,” Purple calls out, grinning wildly.
The girl in Red has climbed into one of the play structures and watches you and Purple with a somber look on her face. Fairy Wings rocks back and forth on a small horse that’s held up by a spring. She watches you too, with a different look on her face. Red looks like she’s watching Purple. Fairy Wings looks like she’s watching only you.
“You’re going to get us killed,” you tell Purple. “They’re gonna hear.”
“Oh, donnae worry about that,” he brushes away your concern. “We’re perfectly capable of keepin’ ye safe.”
“I can keep myself safe, thanks,” you retort. You go to stand and Fairy Wings stops rocking. She stands, her eyes locked on yours, mirroring your movements. You freeze, then sit back down on the swing. Purple follows your gaze to see Fairy Wings staring at you.
“Donnae mind her,” he tells you. “They were all just…so excited t’meet ye.”
“Meet me?” you ask in a whisper, your eyes returning to him again. He can see the worry in your face, the clock ticking down in your head, the gears in your mind turning, calculating every possible scenario that has the potential to unfold before you. Smart. Keen. Living in the future so you can survive the present.
He likes that.
“Yes,” he grins. “We were watchin’ ye, from up the hill,” he continues. “Looked like ye could use some company.”
You don’t respond. You look him up and down. Where the zipper of his tracksuit opens, you can see a dirty undershirt clinging to his chest. Gold chains hang loose around his neck, clinking slightly as he shifts on the swing. You can’t believe it’s taken you this long to notice the inverted crucifix attached to one of them.
“Y’see, they’re always excited to meet new people,” he tells you. “But you…ye were especially excitin’.”
“How’s that?”
He grins, and you can hear some of the others giggle and snicker from around the playground, obviously listening in.
“See, she already knows her lines,” Blue taunts Black & Red. “And I bet she’s gonna pick you, y’fuckin’ weak cunt!”
“Fuck off!” Black & Red shouts. “She’s gonna pick fuckin’ Jones, guarantee it!”
“Is not!” Orange shouts across the playground. “She’s gonna pick you, you’re fuckin’ rolled over on your back already!”
Black & Red squirms on the ground underneath Blue’s grip. He brings his knee up and connects with Blue’s groin, freeing himself and twisting, pinning Blue to the ground underneath him. He flicks out a pocket knife.
“Oi!” Purple shouts. Instantly, the boys stop fighting. “She’s not pickin’ any’a you rowdy fuckers.”
You notice Fairy Wings deflate slightly.
“She’s not meant t’be a Finger.”
The tracksuits sit up from their places scattered around the playground. They’re watching you now, the two of you, clearly intrigued. Whatever Purple is up to, it’s obvious that even they don’t know his next move.
You’re looking around for a way out– any way out. You can tell he’s done fucking with you; he’s going to reveal why he’s here, why they’re all here, why they’re bothering with you, and then you have two options: submit or die.
“She’s meant t’be a Disciple.”
The tracksuits all stir, perking up, standing, watching. Purple turns back to you. He brings a hand adorned with gold rings to your face and grips your chin firmly in his fingers. He doesn’t have a crazed look in his eye; fuck, it would almost be comforting if you could see the insanity raging behind his irises. When he looks at you, all you can see is pure, uninterrupted…sincerity.
It makes your blood run cold.
The screeching that erupts around you snaps both of you out of the moment. Purple drops your chin and stands. You jump up and reach for your rucksack. You unzip it and grab your machete, tossing the scabbard back into the bag before slinging it over your shoulder again. The tracksuits all pick up their weapons, brandishing their blades, slingshots, and bats.
You take a quick scan to assess the situation. There’s a group of Infected charging down the hill towards the playground. It looks like there’s around a dozen of them. For the first time since they showed up, you’re kind of grateful to be surrounded by eight feral freaks with weapons.
“Hold,” Purple commands, a sick smile spreads across his face. You snap your head towards him in disbelief. They’re not seriously going to listen to him?
Yet they do.
They’re frozen, watching the Infected running towards them. You know your odds are better in a group, but everything in you is screaming to run. Run away, run into the battle, same fucking difference, but run.
And yet they stand.
“Hold,” he repeats, his voice even and measured. He watches the Infected barrelling towards you, snarling and hissing. He listens to your breath as it puffs in and out of your lungs.
The Infected reach the base of the hill. It’s seconds before they’ll be on the woodchips, lunging at you. You grip the machete firmly in your fist. You roll your injured shoulder once, wincing in pain. His eyes flick over to you. He can see every muscle in your face betraying your anxiety, your desire to jump into action. But there’s something else there, too. The same look a hunting dog gets before it chases a fox.
He grins. You listened.
“Fucking go.”
The tracksuits charge at the Infected. Fairy Wings runs at one with her bat, swinging wildly and sending it to the ground. She bashes its skull in with the wood until you can hear the disgusting squish of the bat connecting with soft tissue. You charge forward into the fray, machete leading your way. Red is shoving her knife into the chest of a decaying woman, still wearing jeans and a sweater, obviously recently turned. Younger Infected were more likely to attack in packs like this, unable to hunt for themselves yet.
Another Infected runs at Red from the side and you step in, plunging your machete through his ribcage. He gurgles as blood leaks from his mouth, and you kick him in the hip to push him off of your blade. He’s a middle aged man, his hair only just starting to grey.
“I fuckin’ had it,” Red hisses at you.
“Fuck you,” you spit before running at another Infected.
Jimmy’s face lights up in delight as he watches you.
“Oooh, gonnae haveta be quicker’n that, Jimmy!” he shouts gleefully.
Red rolls her eyes and turns to another Infected, seemingly bored with the task.
“He was mine, you cunt!” Fairy Wings screeches at you when you stab another zombie, tossing the now twice-killed corpse to the side.
“Then why didn’t you fuckin’ kill ‘im?” you taunt her.
“Ohhoohoo!!” Jimmy giggles, clapping. “Beautiful work!”
The boys are still finishing off two Infected.
“Anytime ye care t’finish up there, lads, by all means, take yer time,” Purple quips, pretending to yawn.
Your eyes dart from the tracksuits back to him. He’s distracted, watching his clones gather around the final skirmish, cheering and laughing to each other, blonde wigs now smattered with blood.
It’s now or never.
You turn and run, the tall grass whipping against your skin and stinging. But you can’t slow down. You charge towards the trees, the same trees the Infected just emerged from, and fuck, there could be more running towards you right now. But you can’t slow down.
You race through the trees, dodging gnarled roots and rocks. Your lungs are screaming and your heart is pounding so loud you’re not even sure you’d hear any Infected around you. You run until you can’t run anymore, and then you keep running.
Running.
Running.
Running.
You can see an Infected in the distance, running towards you, hissing. You don’t break your stride. You hold your machete firmly and swing as you barrel forward, feeling the head of the Infected come off in one clean swoop as you pass. It lands against the forest floor with a loud thunk.
Tears sting your eyes and your lungs don’t feel like they’re part of your body anymore.
You run until you’re through the woods and in another clearing of tall grass. And just in the distance, you see it: a small stone cottage.
You could sob if you still had air in your lungs. As it is, you just run until you reach the front door. You pound on the wood, rattling the old door around in its frame.
“Hello!” you croak. “Hello, please let me in!”
You jiggle the knob. It’s sticky, but it rotates just barely in your grip. You resist the instinct to shove your shoulder into the wood, mindful of the pain still stinging your muscle. You bring a boot to the bottom of the door, kicking it roughly and throwing it open.
You tumble inside and slam the door closed behind you. You sink to the floor, your legs and feet burning. Your machete clatters against the wood floorboards as you drop it, your hand still clenched in a distorted claw shape. You’re shaking and sobbing quietly, the fear in your chest still lighting up every nerve in your body. You sit like that, you have no idea how long, just shaking, crying, huddled on the floor.
“Stay down here, lovey, chain the door after me.”
“But Dad–”
“Stay put! Darling, I love you so much–”
“Dad, please–”
“Chain it up! I love you!!”
The sounds of your soft cries and shaking breaths dissolve into the floorboards beneath you. It’s dark in the cottage.
It’s empty.
You try to gather your thoughts, re-order your mind.
The cottage is empty.
Slowly, you push yourself up and to your feet. You drag your aching feet into the kitchen, throwing open cupboards. They’re filled with canned goods, properly stocked. You turn to the sink and open the cabinet beneath the ceramic basin. Giant jugs, the blue ones you’ve seen in pictures in old magazines, sitting upside down on a pedestal while men in suits stand around smiling, sit beneath the sink. Filled with water.
You almost can’t believe it.
You shuffle through the house until you find the tiny bedroom. It’s not much; a small bed, a nightstand, a radio. But holy shit, it’s a bed.
You collapse onto the bed, unable to bear your own weight on your feet any longer. The sheets are soft, threadbare in a few patches. You crawl under the duvet, boots still laced up. The feeling of a pillow under your head makes you want to cry again.
It’s only seconds before you drift off.
Back on the playground, in the afternoon light, the Jimmys stand around the final fallen Infected. They laugh, cheer, slap each other on the shoulder, their congratulatory shoving quickly turning into roughhousing. Jimmy approaches them, grinning widely. He stops quickly in his tracks, watching them. They all snap to attention, staring at him with crazed eyes and delirious smiles.
Jimmy pops up one foot and flicks his wrists up, standing in a playful ninja’s pose he remembers from a show on the telly ages ago.
“Howzat?” he teases.
“HOWZAAAAAAT!!!!” the Jimmys shriek in response, copying his pose before devolving into more whooping and cheering.
Jimmy scans over his flock. Seven.
He quietly holds up the two fingers on his right hand. The Jimmys stop their chaotic celebration and watch their leader dutifully, aware of his signal to call their attention.
“Fingers…where is the girl?” he asks them plainly.
The seven blonde heads twist and turn in confusion, each looking around the playground and the surrounding area, until they realize.
“She’s gone,” Jimmy Jimmy says, more stupidly and out loud to himself than to any of the others.
“I can see tha’ she’s gone,” Jimmy grits through a forced smile. “Do ya think it would please Old Nick, to find tha’ you stupid cunts lost the first Disciple of his only son?”
His voice is amplified in his anger; not necessarily louder, but bigger. Sharper.
“No, Sir Jimmy,” they reply in shambled unison.
“No…I donnae think so, either,” he assures them, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So here’s what you lazy fuckers are gonnae do.”
“Can we kill ‘er?” Jimmima asks sweetly, swaying her hips from side to side, bloodied bat still dragging at her side.
“No,” Jimmy replies. “No, you cunts…fuckin’ find her…and bring her to me. Alive.”
Jimmy looks over their faces, dull and obedient. Jimmima is pouting at the prospect of not being able to kill you on sight. Shite has a disgusting smile plastered on his face. One corner of Jimmy’s lip darts up.
You’ll turn up.
You listened the first time.
Jimmy smiles.
“Howzat?”
“HOWZAT!”