[The Walking Dead] Nor Am I Out of It
Title: Nor Am I Out of It
Author: astrogirl2
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV series)
Characters/Pairings: Milton
Length: ~650 words
Rating: R
Spoilers: Huge ones for the S3 finale, "Welcome to the Tombs"
Warnings: Character death, violence, some gore, horror
Prompt: 015. Any Fandom -- Any Character(s) -- Zombies fully conscious of their actions but unable to control them.
Summary: Milton discovers he was more right than he imagined.
Author's Note: I am a terrible person, and I am very sorry.
Nor Am I Out of It
Milton breathes in. He breathes out.
He doesn't want to. Every breath hurts, like a knife stuck in his guts all over again. But every breath means he's still alive, and he has to live a little longer. Just another minute. And then another after that.
His vision is starting to go black around the edges, little dots joining up into bigger ones, until all he can see is darkness. Not that it matters, anyway, because he can't keep his eyes open any longer. The world is receding from him, the sounds of Andrea struggling with the pliers growing distant, growing meaningless. He wants to sleep, and there's a reason why he shouldn't, but he can't remember what it is.
Milton breathes in, and doesn't breathe out again. Not yet.
**
Suddenly, he's awake. He's awake, and the world is back, but something's wrong. Well, no, of course something's wrong, the whole world is wrong, being stabbed in the stomach is wrong, but something's different, too. It takes him a moment to realize what it is: he's not in pain. His mind worries at that for a moment, tries to make sense of it. A rush of endorphins? Could that possibly explain it?
A sound escapes him, a harsh, breathy rasp. That's not good. It sounds like a Biter noise. Andrea will think the worst.
His eyes open, and he can see her, still handcuffed, still struggling. "I'm still here," he tries to tell her again. "I'm still alive." But nothing comes out, only his jaw clenching and unclenching on the empty air.
And then he's moving. Or... something is moving him. With an oddly detached feeling of panic, a panic that he should feel in his heart and his gut but doesn't, he realizes something other than him has control of his limbs. And his body. And his still-chomping mouth.
The virus. He's still here, and the virus is here with him, and the virus is the one in control.
He's moving towards Andrea, slowly but inexorably. The way they always move. He can see the fear in her eyes as she makes one last, desperate attempt to free herself, but he can't look away, not any more than he can stop.
I was right, he thinks. (Funny how his mind is actually clearer now than it was a moment ago, when he was still alive.) I was right. The spark of life. But not just a spark. A fire, burning as bright as ever, but hidden. Disconnected. Trapped. He wonders if he would have seen it, if he'd just looked deeper, if he'd found the right experiment. He wonders if he'd ever have been able to sleep again if he had. There's a whole world full of this, he thinks. A whole world full of us. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
You kill or you die. Or you die and you kill. Or you live, you live on inside your dead and rotting body... and you kill anyway.
His teeth sink into her neck. He can taste her blood; it tastes like rusted iron. How is it, he wonders, in the part of his mind that isn't busy wanting to scream, that he can feel it trickling down his throat, can feel her flesh hot and dense inside him when he swallows, but still cannot feel any pain?
He desperately wants to retch, to cry, to apologize. But he can't do anything but chew.
Something goes clank!, and a sudden blow forces his head back, pieces of shredded meat stretching and tearing between her neck and his teeth. Then the pliers are plunging towards his eye, and he has just enough time to feel grateful. At least he's luckier than most of them. Luckier than she might be.
His eyeball bursts, and then his brain, and finally the spark goes out.
Author: astrogirl2
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV series)
Characters/Pairings: Milton
Length: ~650 words
Rating: R
Spoilers: Huge ones for the S3 finale, "Welcome to the Tombs"
Warnings: Character death, violence, some gore, horror
Prompt: 015. Any Fandom -- Any Character(s) -- Zombies fully conscious of their actions but unable to control them.
Summary: Milton discovers he was more right than he imagined.
Author's Note: I am a terrible person, and I am very sorry.
Nor Am I Out of It
Milton breathes in. He breathes out.
He doesn't want to. Every breath hurts, like a knife stuck in his guts all over again. But every breath means he's still alive, and he has to live a little longer. Just another minute. And then another after that.
His vision is starting to go black around the edges, little dots joining up into bigger ones, until all he can see is darkness. Not that it matters, anyway, because he can't keep his eyes open any longer. The world is receding from him, the sounds of Andrea struggling with the pliers growing distant, growing meaningless. He wants to sleep, and there's a reason why he shouldn't, but he can't remember what it is.
Milton breathes in, and doesn't breathe out again. Not yet.
**
Suddenly, he's awake. He's awake, and the world is back, but something's wrong. Well, no, of course something's wrong, the whole world is wrong, being stabbed in the stomach is wrong, but something's different, too. It takes him a moment to realize what it is: he's not in pain. His mind worries at that for a moment, tries to make sense of it. A rush of endorphins? Could that possibly explain it?
A sound escapes him, a harsh, breathy rasp. That's not good. It sounds like a Biter noise. Andrea will think the worst.
His eyes open, and he can see her, still handcuffed, still struggling. "I'm still here," he tries to tell her again. "I'm still alive." But nothing comes out, only his jaw clenching and unclenching on the empty air.
And then he's moving. Or... something is moving him. With an oddly detached feeling of panic, a panic that he should feel in his heart and his gut but doesn't, he realizes something other than him has control of his limbs. And his body. And his still-chomping mouth.
The virus. He's still here, and the virus is here with him, and the virus is the one in control.
He's moving towards Andrea, slowly but inexorably. The way they always move. He can see the fear in her eyes as she makes one last, desperate attempt to free herself, but he can't look away, not any more than he can stop.
I was right, he thinks. (Funny how his mind is actually clearer now than it was a moment ago, when he was still alive.) I was right. The spark of life. But not just a spark. A fire, burning as bright as ever, but hidden. Disconnected. Trapped. He wonders if he would have seen it, if he'd just looked deeper, if he'd found the right experiment. He wonders if he'd ever have been able to sleep again if he had. There's a whole world full of this, he thinks. A whole world full of us. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
You kill or you die. Or you die and you kill. Or you live, you live on inside your dead and rotting body... and you kill anyway.
His teeth sink into her neck. He can taste her blood; it tastes like rusted iron. How is it, he wonders, in the part of his mind that isn't busy wanting to scream, that he can feel it trickling down his throat, can feel her flesh hot and dense inside him when he swallows, but still cannot feel any pain?
He desperately wants to retch, to cry, to apologize. But he can't do anything but chew.
Something goes clank!, and a sudden blow forces his head back, pieces of shredded meat stretching and tearing between her neck and his teeth. Then the pliers are plunging towards his eye, and he has just enough time to feel grateful. At least he's luckier than most of them. Luckier than she might be.
His eyeball bursts, and then his brain, and finally the spark goes out.