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dariaslookalike · 8 months

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Needing Miller pt I

Summary: It's a shit hole of a world that you're living in, and it gets even shittier when you're ambushed in your sleep. It's a slippery slope that leads you from being tucked cozily in your sleeping bag to joining the raiding group lead by the most infuriating (and intimidating) man you've ever met. You need to survive, above all else- either in this group (without smacking its leader over the head), or in the world alone after somehow escaping. Easier said than done, when your mind loses all sense of focus, tactics and skills the second that Joel Miller rolls up his sleeves and shows his godforsaken forearms.

Warnings: Violence, swearing, adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagnist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I posted this on AO3 under the same username, feel free to give that a look. I'm excited to be posting this cause its been sitting in my drafts FOREVVEEERRR but i'm also not going to be updating it on a regular schedule- uni and life blah blah blah

Next Chapter: Pt 2

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You know something is wrong before you wake up.

There’s a shift in the air. A warm, humid breeze puffs against your cheek. You squeeze your eyes tight, trying to savour the little bit of rest you can find here. It was a miracle to find a mall like this; abandoned, free of infected, and a safe place to spend the night.

But your gut sinks and there’s a sudden sense of dread that settles on your shoulders now, even in your half-asleep state. You’re tucked into the corner of an abandoned clothing store. The racks were mostly picked clean, or otherwise moth-eaten, but you had found some coverage behind the counter. You had laid your sleeping bag down and could only imagine it before the outbreak; girls younger than you standing behind the register, tiredly scanning item after item as some middle-aged woman goes into a drabble about her day. But the corner was still quiet and safe; more than you had been awarded in your recent weeks.

So why was there a breeze?

Your hand inches down and grips at your knife, tucked into your jeans. It was uncomfortable and prodding to sleep with, but right now you were more than grateful you had kept it beside you.

You open your eyes and are met with a row of crooked, yellowed teeth and wide eyes. The man’s face is pressed up against the floor and he grins at you, his nostrils flaring when your eyes meet his. You can see every dirty pore of his face, every cold sore littered around his mouth.

You scramble back, trying to put some distance between the two of you so that you can rip your hand out of the sleeping bag and stab him through his grinning mouth. He laughs, and it sounds bubbly and excited. You glance around quickly and see another man, standing off to the side. Not as if he’s on the lookout, but as if he’s simply overseeing his friend; supervising his fun. His face is hollow as he looks at you. Uncaring. You feel nauseous.

The man is wiry and everything about him is thin. The angle of his shoulders, the concavity of his neck, the tight pull of skin around his face. He shifts himself into a squat, and his hands snake out, gripping you by the shoulders. He pulls you up, and his bony fingers dig painfully into your shoulders, his rotten mouth fanning across you.

His voice is croaky and uneven, but he leers closer to you. “I’m gonna have so much fun with ya. Love it when they get that scared look on their face.”

You blanch, and feel your breath get caught in your throat. But damned if you give into his weird, kinky reverse psychology. You struggle, kicking out to him, and it does little more than shuffle your sleeping bag further down. He chuckles at your feeble attempt but you don’t stop. His hands pin you to the wall, but you’re almost thankful for it- it lets the sleeping bag tug down unresisted while you remain upright. He just smiles and it makes his face crease in a way that reminds you of a worn, leathered shoe.

“Look atcha. Pretty face. Can’t wait to see what those pretty lips do.”

He squeezes against the clothed flesh of your breast. He groans, and pushes himself forward, rutting against your leg. His hand kneads against your breast harshly. Your arm is finally out enough that you can wrench it free of the sleeping bag material, and you manage to kick it completely to your feet. He doesn’t notice, instead entranced by his groping.

But he fucked up. Let your shoulder go to be a pervert. Stupid fucking raider.

And then your arm is raising and your fingers are clutching the knife so tightly and your arm is swinging down and your muscles tense with the amount of force and your hand angles the blade for his neck.

But his eyes dart over at the last second and he stops chuckling, instead swinging himself to the side. Your knife misses his neck, but you follow it through regardless, driving it home into his shoulder.

He cries out in a twisted combination of pain and fury, and his hand drops from your breast. You see his friend advance closer, hands reaching to his jeans, where a gun is shoved into the side. The man in front of you snarls, not even bothering to tell him to back off with words; but his friend gets the message, and drops his hand, stepping back. Deeming you not a threat.

You dig the hilt in deeper and kick out, boots connecting against his shin.

He whips back to you, and spittle flies out of his mouth as he huffs in pain. But his other hand still pins your shoulder, and in a second it readjusts to your throat, squeezing against the column of your neck. His eyes are somehow wider, and you can see the red veins surrounding them.

You’re forced to abandon the knife in his shoulder, and instead both your hands come up to claw at his hand. He laughs, and reaches up, twisting the knife out of his shoulder in a pained yell. You want to tell him he shouldn’t have done that. Stupid fucking raider. That he might bleed out now if you were lucky enough to nick an artery. But instead, you bare your teeth and your hands reach out, clawing at his eyes when it proves futile to attack his hand. His fingers squeeze tighter at your throat and you suck in your last breath.

He’s going to kill you, says a small voice in your head.

He angles his head back just far enough that your hands can’t dig into his flesh and the strain makes his neck look taut and ready to snap. You’re starting to get lightheaded. He laughs again, and you kick out; but this time it’s weak, frenzied and doesn’t land with the direction or force as before.

He’s going to kill you. Stupid fucking raider.

The bloodied knife is in his hand and he angles it up, digging the tip into the apple of your right cheek. The hand at your throat relaxes, and you realise it’s for the same reason his friend didn’t intervene. You weren’t a threat. You gulp down air and it brings back focus to you. You dig your fingernails into his forearm but he doesn’t even flinch as you draw blood, and gouge your nails in deeper. He just shows all his yellow, rotting teeth in a grin.

“Thought we could have some fun.” He moves his face closer, sneering. “But you’re a fucking bitch with this fucking knife.” He digs it in, and you feel blood dribble down your face. “Gonna make sure you’re just as fucking ugly outside as you are inside.”

He digs it in deeper but his eyes stay trained on you. You realise he’s waiting for you to start begging. To start pleading for yourself, for your skin, for your face. To convince him not to maul you and assault you and kill you.

You spit on him and it lands across his nose and cheeks. “Fuck you. I’ll still look better than you, you inbred piece of shit.”

He drags it down your face and you hate the satisfaction in his eyes when you cry out. You feel it slice through tissue and he drags it from your right cheekbone down the length of your face, and it’s such a searing, precise pain that throbs throughout your whole face; he could have been stabbing you in the eye at the same time, and you wouldn’t have been able to differentiate. You can feel the tip of the blade scrap against your teeth and gums and blood fills your mouth and your lips part, letting blood flow out instead of choking on it.

But then a shot rings out. And the hand at your throat falls and the knife is wrenched out of your face.

You can feel your own blood gushing down your cheek but there’s something warm and wet splashed across the entirety of your face. You crumple to the ground, and your hands press themselves against your cheek, trying to halt the bleeding. You can’t even think, don’t even know why you’re trying to stop the blood flow when there’s no way you’re making it out of here alive. He was going to have his way with you and he was going to kill you and his friend was going to-

Your eyes flick across the floor, and travel up his pair of jeans, to his bloodstained shirt, to his face that’s half missing. It’s a bullet hole in the same manner as an asteroid being played in a darts game. There is no precision or clear entry or minuscule crater. His face is torn apart in a mess of red and flesh and wet and his one eye stays on you, unseeing. Your spit is still flecked across his cheek.

You lean over and vomit, and it’s a horrible mixture of bile from your empty stomach and red from your cheek. It stings against your wound, an acidic pang.

Someone’s talking and you’re reminded of the man standing to the side. But it’s two voices. Your ears are buzzing.

“What did I fucking tell you about the girls? What the fuck did I say?” Commanding. Brutal.

“I-I’m sorry Joel.”

A thud. “I asked you a fucking question. What did I say?”

“T-to not touch 'em. To not think about it.”

“‘should blow your fucking head off. Look at your friend-” You can see in your peripheral that the man’s head is clenched in the newcomer's hand, and twisted in your direction. There’s enough force that he could have had his neck snapped, but he simply stumbles and looks over towards you.

“You think for a second of doing the same as him, and I’ll wrench your skull off with my bare hands. Now get the fuck out of here. Don’t come back.”

And then there’s silence.

The man still stares up at you. His head has become a puddle on the floor. He’s missing half of his face, and you think the other half is splattered on you.

You stare at him.

Can’t stop.

Stupid fucking raider.

He was going to kill you.

His chest doesn’t rise and fall. He’s not gasping for breath. Your cheek is a searing, blinding pain, and you wonder if he felt anything while it happened.

The red of his face drips onto the tiled floor. It spreads out, and soaks into the corner of your sleeping bag that’s crumpled to the floor. You can see his brain but you can’t rationalise it with the diagrams you had seen of a pink, fleshy oval. It’s red and dripping and chunks of it are hanging out and it looks more like a splattered, bruised tomato than some scientific drawing.

You should be standing up. Running. Sprinting until your legs give out. Wiping his blood off your face. Stopping your bleeding. That’s what the voice in your head tells you. You’re vaguely aware that the man- Joel, says the small voice, is still in the room with you. That he might be worse than the man now soaking into the floor.

But you stare at him. Can’t stop. He was going to kill you.

It’s like the world dulls when the other man crouches in front of you. Your ears don’t hear anything. Your eyes only see the red veins of the man in front of you, blooming out as he drains onto the ground. You feel lightheaded and the throb of your cheek and sting of your bruised neck fade into the background.

And then a hand touches your chin, which is wet with…you’re not sure. Your blood. His. Tears.

He- Joel, the voice in your head hisses- tilts your face to him and your eyes are wrenched away from the man on the floor, and instead, you meet brown ones. Crows feet creep out at the corners. There’s a notch in between his eyebrows as they furrow. His nose is strong and carved and his jaw is square. He says something and you don’t hear it, instead eyes dropping to the movement of his lips.

And then the world rushes back in.

Your ears are filled with the noise of your heavy, ragged breathing, you feel the bright, stinging pain in your face, and you can smell the iron spreading from you and on the floor. And you don’t know how but your knife is back in your hand. It’s still red. You don’t care. Instead, your pulse is thrumming in your neck and you feel it drip down your face. And your muscles are all screaming at you in support and that voice in your head is a rapid chant of yes yes yes yes. And there’s adrenaline filling your chest, and you growl, eyes twisting and you lash out like a rabid animal, your teeth gnashing and your knife swinging down in a high arc and this time you’ll make it count, you’ll make it land, you’ll fight and you’ll scream and you’ll kill and you’ll-

Your knife doesn’t even make it halfway through the air before a hand grabs your wrist, stopping all motion with that one action; like screeching a train to a halt.

You growl, and it comes out guttural in your heavy breath. You bare your teeth and taste your blood. You angle the knife down, tilting it so that the bloodied edge digs into the large hand grabbing your wrist. You see blood start to drip down his wrist and you force more pressure into the hilt of the knife. Slice it through tissue and tendon and bone. Create that searing, precise pain.

You carve a nice wound into the hand, but then with only a flex of tendons, Joel squeezes your wrist so tightly that your bones groan against each other. Your hand involuntarily flexes and the knife clatters to the ground beside you.

Your free hand snakes up, aiming to gouge out his eyes. He huffs, and again, easily grips your wrist in his hand.

You bite back your cry this time, and snarl. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

It comes out garbled, and blood drips from the inside and outside of your cheek, but he understands. He scoffs. It’s not perverted or desperate in the way the man’s was; it’s genuine disbelief. His voice rumbles out from him, deep and unyielding. “And how are you gonna do that?”

Stupid fucking raider.

You use his grip against him, his resistance to let go of your wrists. You force yourself forward, and his tight hold on you means that he falls back, and lands against his back with a dull oof. You raise your elbow as high as it can and slam it back down into his sternum. You slam your knee down, and it connects with his crotch; you hear him groan beneath you painfully. You go to kick out at him, knee him in the crotch again until his grandkids are screaming for you to stop, but his thighs cage you, and tighten around both your legs. You stretch your fingers out like claws and rack them down his neck, drawing lines that bloom in red. He adjusts his grip, and his hands easily envelop yours completely.

You stare down at him huffing, and struggle in his grip, like a mouse caught in a snake’s hold. You jab anything you can into him, your elbow back in further, your hip into his thigh. You land blow after blow and you’re sure they’ll bruise by the way he hisses and groans. But he’s stronger than you and his hold tightens around you, squeezing in until you can’t move at all, instead pinned against him. Now that he knows you’re resistant, he doesn’t let you move an inch.

His broad, thick legs squeeze against your own so that you’re lying atop him, while he holds your hands painfully between the two of you. His hand is pouring out blood from where your knife sliced, and it seeps over your hands, sticky and wet and reeking of iron.

Joel scoffs again, and you think it’s the most annoying sound you’ve ever heard.

“Real impressive- first time I’ve seen an elbow jab be used as a killing blow.”

His drawl is Southern; smooth and honeyed, which almost sweetens his mocking words. You’re going to tear his throat out with your teeth.

He looks up at you, and his eyes almost soften. But then his face morphs into something tense, something rigid and he shakes his head. “‘M not gonna kill ya. Or hurt ya.”

You laugh, and your hair falls with the movement, spilling to frame your face and hang over the man beneath you. Your blood drips from you onto his cheek. He doesn’t move to wipe it away.

“Exactly what your filthy fucking raider friend said. We’d have some ‘fun’.” You lean down, eyes wide, and you chuckle, trying to not let the pure fear seep through. His grip is so strong on your hands that you know he could splinter your bones right now if he wanted to; he stops you from leaning closer to his neck as you planned, and you gnash your teeth. “I’ll bite your fucking dick off if you put it near me.”

You expect him to scoff. Maybe slam you into the floor, push your face into the puddle of the last man who hurt you. Break your hands.

Instead, he lets go of you. Loosens his legs against yours.

You stare down at him for a moment, shocked. But then you scramble back, so quickly you almost slip, until your back is against the wall. You reach out, gripping the hilt of the knife you lost in the palm of your hand.

You sit back on your haunches and breathe heavily, eyes trained on the man in front of you. His eyes don’t leave yours but he sits up. Draws his legs in closer. Pushes to his feet, and crouches, mirroring you.

You both stare at each other, and you can feel his attention on the knife in your hands, the tension in your shoulders. You take in the reddish lines down his neck, scratched down the surface. Your blood on his cheek. His blood dripping off his fingers. You force yourself to swallow. You tried stabbing him once and he easily stopped you; it won’t take much now that he’s expecting it too. You force yourself to still your breathing. Force yourself to place the knife beside you, on the floor.

He nods at the action and raises his hands, palms facing towards you. An act of surrender too.

“‘M Joel.” He says, and it’s so simple that it leaves you blinking for a few seconds, waiting for him to continue. But you realise he’s waiting for you to introduce yourself, and you do so. He whispers your name under his breath, as if verbally committing it to memory.

“I meant it- ‘M not gonna hurt you.” He tilts his head and spits against the dead man on the floor. “That fucker’s always been a problem.”

A problem. His words from earlier rush in; reminding the other man that he had warned them about girls. You run your tongue along your teeth. It tastes coppery. “You’ll let me leave?”

He nods again, slowly, as if you were a cornered animal. You suppose you were. “‘f ya want.”

You nod slightly, and the movement makes you aware of the wet drip from your cheek, and the dried splatter across your face.

He sighs. You knew there was going to be a ‘but’. Stupid fucking raiders.

“You’re gonna run into bad things out here,” His tone is matter-of-fact. “Fuck knows where you’re going, but others won’t be as kind as I am.”

You gesture your head to the body between you two. “As kind as him?”

“Worse.”

“So what? You’re telling me to get off your turf, turn around and don’t look back?”

He shakes his head again and huffs out a breath as if all this talking is tiring him. “No. I’m telling you to join us.”

You blink. Your cheek still drips and the pain at your neck still stings. You scoff, and your hand itches for the knife at your side. “So I can be your group’s whore? I said I’d bite anything you put near me.”

“We don’t do that to women. Or girls.” His eyes dip down to you at that, taking you in, assessing you. You wondered if you looked like some dirty street urchin. “But I’m one man down, and you clearly have some fight in you.”

You clench your jaw, ignoring the sting of your cheek. “I don’t trust you.”

He stares at you and tilts his head to the man beside you, his tone sharp and biting. “You think he trusted me? ’M not going to be your fucking friend.”

He pushes to his feet so suddenly and quickly that you flinch back, hands gripping the hilt of the knife beside you instantly. His eyes track the movement, and his lips tug up the smallest amount as if you proved his point. That you would still fight.

He huffs and rolls his eyes as if it’s the most obvious choice in the world. “Leave. Stay. I don’t give a shit, but it’s going to be the best deal you get out here. ‘Specially before you bleed out.”

He points at his own face, mirroring the wound on your cheek. And then he turns and steps over the dead man, and walks away. You watch his form; the broad expanse of his back. The muscled tone of his thighs beneath his jeans. His full height now that he was standing.

You could run the other way. Forget about his warning and keep heading east, not that you had a place in mind. Maybe he was bluffing- maybe there was no one else here, and he was banking on you not questioning it…Except you had seen the evidence of raiders as you advanced here. You weren’t stupid enough to not recognise tracks kicked into the dirt, or the rubbish left behind or the corpses that weren’t decayed by years, but were newly rotting.

You could listen to him, and just turn around; pray you didn’t run into any groups you had somehow avoided and go back to fucking FEDRA and everything you tried to leave behind. Or…stay. Stay with the stupid fucking raiders who split your face open but have someone to look out for you; someone to take watch while you slept, instead of just crossing your fingers and hoping that would be enough- because it clearly wasn’t.

Fuck.

You curse yourself. Reach out, and wind up your bloodied sleeping bag as quickly as possible, shoving it into your bag. Sling your pack across your shoulder, and stand up. You shove your knife into your jeans.

You look down at the dead man. There is an unholy halo of blood, blooming around what’s left of his head, that edges onto the toe of your boot.

You walk past and kick him.

It’s not hard to find Joel. He’s leisurely walking down the hall outside; as if he knew you were going to chase after him. He doesn’t turn when you come up beside him, but he talks, his low voice grumbling out between the two of you.

“I’ll get someone to have a look at that. As…an apology for what happened back there.”

Your cheek thrums in pain, and you nod. Can’t exactly expect a bouquet of roses for nearly getting assaulted by one of his henchmen. Some good stitches and antiseptic would be the next best thing. You reach up, and press the cuff of your flannel into your cheek, reminded that you should be putting pressure on it. You try not to swallow the blood in your mouth too much. You wonder how bad it’ll scar.

“Thanks. I guess.”

He nods, and you walk like that through the mall for a bit. He’s leading you back to the entrance you realise, and you have to quicken your pace to keep up with his long strides. You look up at him. “So..are we going to talk about schematics?”

He glances down at you, eyebrow furrowed, and scowling. “You’re not getting a fucking badge for joining.”

“No.” You scoff. “I mean you said we had a deal. What are the strings attached?”

“Strings? This isn’t a business deal. You join. You do what I say. You’ll get fed, protected, the works.” His eyes are stony as he looks at you. Not glaring at you but glaring nonetheless. “Better than what FEDRA can fucking offer.”

There’s a beat between the two of you where he awaits an answer to a question he never asked. Finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

He nods and faces away from you again. Joel’s peace is short-lived when you tsk, speaking up once more.

“What about the rest of the group?”

Another unspoken question, but he reads it loud and clear in the tense of your shoulders, the blood still dripping down your face, the pain as you speak each word and try not to catch your ruined flesh in your teeth. Would you be safe? His Adam apple bobs and he slows, coming to a full stop. He faces you fully, and you clutch the strap of your bag, barely breathing. The glint of a gun is at his waist. You didn’t see it earlier in all the commotion, but now it draws your attention. The same gun that shot your attacker; his man.

You’re reminded that he could kill you easily now. Gun or not. He didn’t sound like he was exaggerating when he threatened to rip off that other man’s head.

“If I say no one’s touching you, no one’s fucking touching you. That’s it. Now shut up.”

He turns and walks more briskly now, and you have to actually jog a bit to catch up after standing there dumbfounded. Rude. Arrogant. But…he was going to keep you safe. Had shot someone- no, not someone, but shot one of his fellow raiders to keep you safe when you didn’t even know him.

He was the only thing standing between you and the rest of the people in his group; the only thing standing between you and the other raiders you had narrowly avoided, combing over the area; and more importantly, the only person standing between your gaping wound getting infected and septically killing you.

You were fucked.

You swallow and remain silent at his side, passing through half-empty shops to get to the mall’s entry. The hallway broadens up into a large foyer, where a water fountain sits, desolate. An abandoned food court surrounds it, tables and chairs cleared out to one side. There’s a group standing at the fountain and you falter. Maybe you should just leave. Run while you still can. Face what’s out there.

But Joel turns beside you and casts a knowing, disapproving look at you as if he could tell exactly what you were thinking. You clench your jaw, ignoring him, and continue forward.

The group talked excitedly, loudly, as if it didn’t matter who heard them. Some of them sit on the lip of the fountain while others stand and talk. The chatter dies down when Joel walks up, and all eyes turn to him.

But their attention is torn, and you feel eyes rake over you; taking in your ruined cheek that’s bleeding down your neck and onto your shirt. Your small statue. The rigid tense of your shoulders. The stained knife in your waistband.

Joel notices and rolls his shoulders, the same way a lion stretches its paws out; a show of power and restraint. “Terry’s gone.”

All the eyes drag back over to him, and you see a man in the back visibly pale. The same man from earlier. Standing guard. Your stomach curdles, and you inch closer to Joel, trying to hide slightly behind his broad form.

Joel tenses when he feels you brush against his arm but he's not obvious in reacting when he sees the same man. You think that, if you weren’t a centimetre from him, you wouldn’t see the rigid still of his shoulders or the flick of his gaze over the faces, that lands and stays on the man. You can hear his words and wonder if he’s rethinking them too. Don’t come back.

He tilts his head down to you and you hate the swivel of eyes, how everyone is now permitted to look at you. The man’s face at the back hardens.

You wonder if he’s staring at the splatter of his friend across your face. Or the ragged gouge in your cheek- he was now the only one here who had seen your face unmarred. You hate that thought.

“She’s with us now. Anyone thinks of following Terry’s footsteps-”

Joel’s hand moves so fast you don’t register it reaching down to his waistband and coming back up until his gun is firing again. The man at the back drops in a spray of red and you shudder out a breath, eyes wide. The noise leaves your ears in shock and everyone takes a step back, some swearing and other’s hands going over their heads.

“And you won’t live to regret it.”

You swallow, and your stomach folds in on itself. Jesus. And Joel said he was kind. What the fuck had you agreed to? Who had you agreed to?

The other men nod, and you realise it’s subordinate. A curt response to their boss. Joel. The leader of this group of raiders. Joel, who had just killed two of his men- one for hurting you, another for disobeying him. Some of their eyes flick back to the now-dead man, whose head is pooling out on the floor.

Joel scoffs. “Deal with that.”

He gestures at two of the men. They spring into action, not questioning him for a second. Joel turns his attention to another man, standing closer to both of you.

“Ryan. Patch her up.”

The man, Ryan, nods. Joel steps away from you, and you almost step with him, not wanting to be left here. But you still yourself. Force your legs to remain planted. Don’t let these strangers think that you need someone to protect you. He walks away, back into the mall as if he wasn’t finished with whatever had dragged him there in the first place.

Ryan walks closer to you. He’s wearing faded jeans and a military-style jacket; all pockets and thick material. He offers you a thin-lipped smile; an acknowledgement and nothing else. You don’t return it.

He gestures his head towards the fountain. “Sit. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

You give him a short, curt nod, but don’t turn your back to him or anyone. Everyone watches you warily. But when you sit, and Ryan shoots a look over his shoulder at them all, that has a flash of Joel’s authority, the conversation gradually returns.

It doesn’t even get interrupted when the body is dragged away. You don’t look. You brace yourself against the edge, hands gripping the tiles. You look up at the man in front of you.

“You ‘re a doctor?”

His lips tug, and he reaches over, grabbing a backpack set near the fountain. “Something like that,” he mutters, riffling through the bag. “I was before the outbreak. Haven’t been one for a long time.”

You nod. He looks to be in his thirties. He must have been just out of med school when the outbreak hit; fresh, probably still doe-eyed and hoping to make a difference in the world of patients.

“Doctor to raider. Crazy pipeline.”

He sighs and looks down at you. You see gauze and a sewing kit in his hand. “Yeah. Did Terry do this to you? Did he…do anything else I need to look at?”

You swallow. Shake your head. “No. Didn’t get that far before Joel found me. He just,” You tilt your neck to the side, exposing the now purple marks on your skin. You wonder how much blood is stained against them. “Choked me too.”

“Told him he was gonna find out if he fucked around.” Ryan huffs angrily, muttering to himself. “I can’t do much for your neck.”

He places his materials down and instead grabs a rag from within the bag. It looks clean enough, at least. He dampens it with his water bottle and then passes it over to you. You wipe it across one side of your face but don’t bother touching the still-flowing wound. You swipe it down your neck, and finally across your hands; you think most of it is your blood, dried against your skin, but your eye catches the toe of your boot. Where you had stepped in Terry, or what Joel left of him.

Ryan takes back the rag and draws his eyes back to yours. His hand reaches up, pressing against the skin of your neck. You flinch back before forcing yourself to relax; he was an examining doctor, not an opportunistic pervert. Hopefully.

“He didn’t do much damage here. It’ll feel worse but then the bruises will fade. As for your cheek…” He tilts his head and bends at the waist, inspecting the torn flesh better. “I’m gonna have to stitch you up. It’s starting to clot which is good but it’s straight through.”

“Yeah. I can taste it.”

Ryan’s lips don’t curl at your statement, instead, he nods in understanding. He rifles in the bag again and produces a large bottle. When he opens it, it smells like the tea tree oil that your mother used to keep in the bathroom cabinet.

“Nature’s antiseptic- it’ll work fantastic at cleaning and keeping out infection, but it’s going to hurt like a bitch and I don’t have anything to give you.”

Did you just look so pathetic and bruised up that he was taking pity on you?

“Can’t be worse than being stabbed in the face, right?”

He shrugs and it does nothing to fill you with confidence. He opens the bottle and pours out some onto his hands and the needle in his grip, sterilising them in a mock imitation of surgery conditions. You force yourself to turn from him, expose your wounded cheek to him.

You don’t know how you sit still. The first stitch is piercing and stinging and brings the throbbing attention back to your cheek. You can’t look at him, so you focus somewhere in front of you; count the cracks in the tiles and the amount of squares. By halfway, you’re not resisting the tears streaming down your face, or wiping the blood that’s dripping down to your chin again. You feel like you’re going to throw up again and acid rises at the back of your throat.

When he finally pulls back and cuts the thread, your hands are shaking. Then he slathers antiseptic across the stitches, taping gauze across them and you think you might pass out.

You must look like you’re about to because Ryan’s bloodied hands reach out to steady you. You blink, hazily and couldn’t smile at him now even if you wanted to.

“Thanks.” You say, but it’s muffled from how little you move your lips. Everything in your face is pulsating. He nods and gives you a worried look.

“You should lie down. You’re gonna be in a lot of pain, and if you can sleep through it, you should.”

You cast a glance around you. In the whole process, you hadn’t realised that the sun had settled and night had fallen in the skylights high above. You can count them now; there are five other men here, all ranging in age, some close to yours, and some older than Ryan. They’re split off in separate groups close to the fountain. Three of them sleep to one side, while the others sit around an open fire. It’s jarring, to see a bonfire in the centre of a shopping mall, even though the world has ended. But there’s no Joel.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just sit here.”

Ryan’s eyes crinkle as if he knows what you’re thinking. “I won’t let anyone get near you if that’s what you’re worried about. You can trust me to stitch up your face, you can trust me to do that, right?”

“Why?”

You bite your lip, eyebrows furrowed. You don’t bother asking much else. He knows what you’re asking. You’re a raider. I’m a girl you don’t know. Why are you being kind?

He nods, and his lips tug down. “I was a doctor. Swore to protect and to heal. And, I know Terry isn’t a good representation of it but… this is a good group.”

“Good?” You ask, cheek throbbing. “Does my face look good right now?”

Ugly. Inside. And Out. You shake away the words, and stare at Ryan’s face, ignoring the tears swelling in your eyes again. He chews his cheek and looks at you earnestly.

“Terry was bad. Everyone here,” He gestures with his hand towards the rest of the group. “Knows to not fuck around with Joel’s rules. He said not to go after girls. He said you’re with us. So I’ll watch over you, but you’re safe either way.”

You nod slightly, sighing. You glance back to Ryan, voice quiet. “Does he…do that a lot? Shoot people to prove a point?”

The man doesn’t flinch at your question and just shrugs. “He’s brutal. It’s what’s made us survive for this long. If he says something he means it; following through just shows everyone that he means business. Don’t get it in your head that just because he dealt with Terry, or brought you into the group, means that he’s kind, or that he cares about you. You’ll be doing your part, just like the rest of us. ”

You nod but still have to bite back the sting of his words. His eyes meet yours as if he was still examining you. Your part. What part did you have in a raiding group?

His expression softens.

“I’ll keep watch over you.”

He stitched up your face, so you feel inclined to believe he wouldn’t let his handiwork go to waste by letting you get shivved in your sleep. And you’re not going to sit around and wait for Joel, especially now that he wasn’t simply your gun-slinging saviour; he was the leader, the killer, the brutal man in charge. You wonder if you should regret joining him; regret the feeling of debt for his two dead men.

But you just nod and slide off the water fountain until you sit on the ground, where you can roll out your sleeping bag.

Ryan stays true to his word, and remains by the fountain as you slip into your sleeping bag, and turn on your side so that your bandaged cheek doesn’t touch the fabric. You try not to think about how Terry’s blood is dried on one corner. You settle with your back to the fountain, not wanting to expose yourself to the rest of the group just yet.

The pain is throbbing. Your wrists and hands and whole body hurt from when you grappled with Joel earlier. You feel exhausted from the rush of adrenaline, the loss of blood, the horrors of the day.

You slip into an uneasy, pained sleep.

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