Walking Dead Ficlet: "The Quiet"
Title: The Quiet
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Bob
Rating: PG
Word Count: 547
Summary: He just wanted to warm himself up a little bit that night. Just a little nip, to take the chill off.
Notes: Post Episode 405. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt 'ostracized from society'
The Quiet
by Severina
Beth smiles wanly at him when she ladles his serving of oatmeal into the bowl, but turns away before he can open his mouth to speak.
Bob snags a spoon from the cup of cutlery. There is no shortage of seats at the picnic tables - not now, not when the flu has culled so many - but only two of the spots are taken. As Bob stands hovering on the periphery, Maggie pulls herself to her feet and strides off without even glancing his way.
He takes a few steps toward the table where Daryl sits, one booted foot propped on the seat next to him. But when Daryl shoots him a glare and hunches his shoulders over his bowl, Bob reverses his course. He sets his untouched bowl on an empty table. He's not hungry anymore.
He doesn't see a soul as he makes his way to C block, where it's cool and dark. Quiet.
Bob clambers onto the bunk and leans against the wall, closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on the tasks ahead. Soon it will be his turn to make the rounds in A block, check on everyone in recovery. If he can focus on doling out pills and listening for any leftover rattles in the chests of his patients, then it won't be so bad. But now… now the silence beats against his head, and no matter how tightly he squishes his eyes shut he can still see the camp, the rickety platform they'd erected at the outskirts of the run-down warehouse; he can still hear the screams echoing off the corrugated metal walls when the walkers came.
There hadn't been more than a few lone sightings for weeks, just a couple of random roamers, easily dispatched. Nothing to indicate that there was a herd gathering in the north, making their slow, inexorable way to the camp. Working look-out was boring; standing for hours huddled in on himself in the cold, fruitlessly scanning the horizon, trying to see more than five feet in front of his face in the dark.
He just wanted to warm himself up a little bit that night. Just a little nip, to take the chill off.
He never meant to fall asleep.
Bob shifts uneasily against the pitted wall. When it's quiet, it almost seems like he can still feel the wind coursing through his thin jacket, still feel the uneven planks digging into his bony knees as he cowered on the watchtower, peering through the cracks in the boards as the walkers flowed into the camp. He had wanted to climb down, his fingers flexing on the knife, but they were… they were everywhere, and the screams never stopped, and he couldn't… he couldn't…
Bob opens his eyes, swallows dryly in the still, dank air.
He stares blindly at the corridor outside his cell, listens for the telltale sound of footsteps in the hall. Prays for someone to check on him, to call his name.
There is only silence.
The backpack is on the floor at his side, and it only takes a moment to pull it into his lap, to unbuckle the straps. To cradle the bottle of whiskey in his arms before carefully unscrewing the cap.
Just a nip. Just to dull the quiet.
5 down, 20 to go!
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Bob
Rating: PG
Word Count: 547
Summary: He just wanted to warm himself up a little bit that night. Just a little nip, to take the chill off.
Notes: Post Episode 405. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt 'ostracized from society'
The Quiet
by Severina
Beth smiles wanly at him when she ladles his serving of oatmeal into the bowl, but turns away before he can open his mouth to speak.
Bob snags a spoon from the cup of cutlery. There is no shortage of seats at the picnic tables - not now, not when the flu has culled so many - but only two of the spots are taken. As Bob stands hovering on the periphery, Maggie pulls herself to her feet and strides off without even glancing his way.
He takes a few steps toward the table where Daryl sits, one booted foot propped on the seat next to him. But when Daryl shoots him a glare and hunches his shoulders over his bowl, Bob reverses his course. He sets his untouched bowl on an empty table. He's not hungry anymore.
He doesn't see a soul as he makes his way to C block, where it's cool and dark. Quiet.
Bob clambers onto the bunk and leans against the wall, closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on the tasks ahead. Soon it will be his turn to make the rounds in A block, check on everyone in recovery. If he can focus on doling out pills and listening for any leftover rattles in the chests of his patients, then it won't be so bad. But now… now the silence beats against his head, and no matter how tightly he squishes his eyes shut he can still see the camp, the rickety platform they'd erected at the outskirts of the run-down warehouse; he can still hear the screams echoing off the corrugated metal walls when the walkers came.
There hadn't been more than a few lone sightings for weeks, just a couple of random roamers, easily dispatched. Nothing to indicate that there was a herd gathering in the north, making their slow, inexorable way to the camp. Working look-out was boring; standing for hours huddled in on himself in the cold, fruitlessly scanning the horizon, trying to see more than five feet in front of his face in the dark.
He just wanted to warm himself up a little bit that night. Just a little nip, to take the chill off.
He never meant to fall asleep.
Bob shifts uneasily against the pitted wall. When it's quiet, it almost seems like he can still feel the wind coursing through his thin jacket, still feel the uneven planks digging into his bony knees as he cowered on the watchtower, peering through the cracks in the boards as the walkers flowed into the camp. He had wanted to climb down, his fingers flexing on the knife, but they were… they were everywhere, and the screams never stopped, and he couldn't… he couldn't…
Bob opens his eyes, swallows dryly in the still, dank air.
He stares blindly at the corridor outside his cell, listens for the telltale sound of footsteps in the hall. Prays for someone to check on him, to call his name.
There is only silence.
The backpack is on the floor at his side, and it only takes a moment to pull it into his lap, to unbuckle the straps. To cradle the bottle of whiskey in his arms before carefully unscrewing the cap.
Just a nip. Just to dull the quiet.
5 down, 20 to go!
.