challenge #13: weekly quick fic #4
Title: Beginnings
Prompt: We Learn More From Loss Than Anything Else
Bonus: Y (for angst)
Word Count: 731
Rating: PG-13
Original/Fandom: Original (When It All Falls Down)
Pairings: none, for now
Warnings: the apocalypse, language, some religious themes, dark subject matter
Summary: Post-apocalyptic fiction, inspired by the game The Last of Us.
Notes: It's a little abrupt, but it's a start of something. I'm fumbling in the dark with these characters since not a lot has been fleshed out at this point. It's more of an attention grabber than anything.
The convoy comes and goes, dropping off its dead. They place the wounded in the skeletons of old buildings turned makeshift clinics, where the men can lie on nothing but broken slabs of stone or the cold stone floor cluttered with fragments of drywall, the tattered ends of cargo pants hanging limply from missing limbs and the sounds of groaning thickening the air Moira breathes.
Most of these men are going to die. She knows that going in.
When they do, they’ll be tossed into the public bonfire in the middle of the colony and lit up. People will huddle around them, some out of reverence and respect for the dead, but most just to garner some warmth and chat. So many bodies are piled there every day, no one is in want of fire. It’s water and food that’s scarce. But then, everyone’s used to it. You’d be surprised what you can get used to.
She felt a kick twice this morning, and once in the afternoon. Hamek says it’s going to be a boy - Allah told him in a dream.
Moira’s not sure if she believes that, but she does want a boy. It’d replace the one she lost in the beginning, seven years ago now. Funny, how it seems like she could wake up any day now and this’ll all be just a bad dream. She’ll throw her feet over the bed, try not to wake Henry, and pad downstairs to make herself some coffee before she heads up to Logan’s room to wake him up for school.
Despite how long it’s been, it doesn’t seem that far away. The pain is not entirely muted but a distant ache. Most days, she can live with everything she’s lost. She guesses time is God’s gift to her. Even through all this.
She passes man after man. Most have gone quiet. Dead. Every other one is barely hanging on by a heartbeat.
That’s when she sees him.
He props himself up on his elbows, struggling to hoist himself upright. His legs aren’t cooperating with him. Like limp, useless things they lie on the floor, obstinate. He grabs at his thigh to slap some life back into his left leg but he isn’t getting anything. He lets out a grating cry, maw toward the sky, fingers curled and veins tense. He falls back and stills, huffing in and out in harsh pants.
Moira isn’t good with running these days, so she settles for a rushed wobble, one hand on the swell of her stomach like it is a ball she might drop and break. She sets down next to him, shifting the hair from his face. He growls and bats her hand away, a feral intimidation tactic, but nothing more.
Moira sighs. “Let me take a look at you.” She presses a finger to his eyelid and pulls back, watching his pupils dilate. He snatches her wrist in his fist and throws it back at her.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” he rasps.
“You’re lucid. Just incredibly angry.” she says.
“No shit.” He props himself back up on his elbows again, boring into her. “My fucking legs don’t work.”
“That’s because our surgeon Lao had to remove a piece of your kneecap. There was shrapnel in it.”
His eyes go from hard to soft with confusion in an instant. “What?”
“You had shrapnel-”
“No,” he shouts, “What happened to me? How long have I been here?”
Moira leans back, folding her arms over her chest. “’Bout three days.”
He shakes his head. “No, no, no, no. That’s a lie. That’s a fucking lie.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s a fucking lie!”
Moira falls silent. She doesn’t want to argue with him anymore. He doesn’t strike her as the kind to that’d give her anything other than lip, but best not to ruffle the fur anymore than it’s already been.
“What’s your name?” she decides to ask instead.
He huffs. “What’s it matter to you?”
Moira shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me. Just thought we could reach some common ground if we knew each other’s names.”
The man slumps against the wall, taking his eyes from her. He has a rough skinned hand stretched out over his bandaged knee. His fingers clench. “’m Sal.”
She smiles. Finally, some progress is being made.
“Nice to meet you, Sal. I’m Moira.”
Prompt: We Learn More From Loss Than Anything Else
Bonus: Y (for angst)
Word Count: 731
Rating: PG-13
Original/Fandom: Original (When It All Falls Down)
Pairings: none, for now
Warnings: the apocalypse, language, some religious themes, dark subject matter
Summary: Post-apocalyptic fiction, inspired by the game The Last of Us.
Notes: It's a little abrupt, but it's a start of something. I'm fumbling in the dark with these characters since not a lot has been fleshed out at this point. It's more of an attention grabber than anything.
The convoy comes and goes, dropping off its dead. They place the wounded in the skeletons of old buildings turned makeshift clinics, where the men can lie on nothing but broken slabs of stone or the cold stone floor cluttered with fragments of drywall, the tattered ends of cargo pants hanging limply from missing limbs and the sounds of groaning thickening the air Moira breathes.
Most of these men are going to die. She knows that going in.
When they do, they’ll be tossed into the public bonfire in the middle of the colony and lit up. People will huddle around them, some out of reverence and respect for the dead, but most just to garner some warmth and chat. So many bodies are piled there every day, no one is in want of fire. It’s water and food that’s scarce. But then, everyone’s used to it. You’d be surprised what you can get used to.
She felt a kick twice this morning, and once in the afternoon. Hamek says it’s going to be a boy - Allah told him in a dream.
Moira’s not sure if she believes that, but she does want a boy. It’d replace the one she lost in the beginning, seven years ago now. Funny, how it seems like she could wake up any day now and this’ll all be just a bad dream. She’ll throw her feet over the bed, try not to wake Henry, and pad downstairs to make herself some coffee before she heads up to Logan’s room to wake him up for school.
Despite how long it’s been, it doesn’t seem that far away. The pain is not entirely muted but a distant ache. Most days, she can live with everything she’s lost. She guesses time is God’s gift to her. Even through all this.
She passes man after man. Most have gone quiet. Dead. Every other one is barely hanging on by a heartbeat.
That’s when she sees him.
He props himself up on his elbows, struggling to hoist himself upright. His legs aren’t cooperating with him. Like limp, useless things they lie on the floor, obstinate. He grabs at his thigh to slap some life back into his left leg but he isn’t getting anything. He lets out a grating cry, maw toward the sky, fingers curled and veins tense. He falls back and stills, huffing in and out in harsh pants.
Moira isn’t good with running these days, so she settles for a rushed wobble, one hand on the swell of her stomach like it is a ball she might drop and break. She sets down next to him, shifting the hair from his face. He growls and bats her hand away, a feral intimidation tactic, but nothing more.
Moira sighs. “Let me take a look at you.” She presses a finger to his eyelid and pulls back, watching his pupils dilate. He snatches her wrist in his fist and throws it back at her.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” he rasps.
“You’re lucid. Just incredibly angry.” she says.
“No shit.” He props himself back up on his elbows again, boring into her. “My fucking legs don’t work.”
“That’s because our surgeon Lao had to remove a piece of your kneecap. There was shrapnel in it.”
His eyes go from hard to soft with confusion in an instant. “What?”
“You had shrapnel-”
“No,” he shouts, “What happened to me? How long have I been here?”
Moira leans back, folding her arms over her chest. “’Bout three days.”
He shakes his head. “No, no, no, no. That’s a lie. That’s a fucking lie.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s a fucking lie!”
Moira falls silent. She doesn’t want to argue with him anymore. He doesn’t strike her as the kind to that’d give her anything other than lip, but best not to ruffle the fur anymore than it’s already been.
“What’s your name?” she decides to ask instead.
He huffs. “What’s it matter to you?”
Moira shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me. Just thought we could reach some common ground if we knew each other’s names.”
The man slumps against the wall, taking his eyes from her. He has a rough skinned hand stretched out over his bandaged knee. His fingers clench. “’m Sal.”
She smiles. Finally, some progress is being made.
“Nice to meet you, Sal. I’m Moira.”