Red Tide² ━ FTWD

CHAPTER 4: Adapt Or Die

RED TIDE

chapter four: adapt or die

[ season 2, episode 2; we all fall down ]

DAY 18

The blue of the morning cast a cool sheen over the island, a foggy haze that crested over the waves and settled among the sea-grass. Heather took a deep breath, relishing in the fresh, salty air coursing through her lungs. The air always tasted better near the sea, though she'd never had much occasion to go. Vermont was landlocked, and they didn't really leave once they'd settled. Heather kicked her way along the docks, and the path up to the island, pausing occasionally to check out a stray shell that caught her eye. Far from the hordes of LA, the island seemed like a small paradise carved from the wreckage of the old world — sheltered from the plague that savaged the mainland. As she gazed over the sand-dunes, a breeze fluttered through her longer locks, tossing the loose strands about her face and cooling the back of her neck.

It was nice being able to walk around without having to look over her shoulder for once.

Though the morning was cool, Heather still felt comfortable enough to indulge in some of her more summer-y articles she'd packed for the trip, settling on a pair of jean shorts, a faded pale yellow tee with a graphic of different mushroom species she'd gotten at a long-forgotten summer camp, and a plaid overshirt, along with her sneakers — which had long since seen better days. Despite the sea breeze and early hour driving the temperature down, she found the outfit comfortable, as she was used to far colder weather in the mountains she called home.

Home. Heather's heart ached at the thought. It was strange to think she might never see it again. Her mother was still dead-set on returning, but that plan was becoming less and less likely as the days passed by.

As she was reflecting, she had continued up the path, hardly realizing it until she came across a larger cement structure overlooking a viewing deck to the path ahead of her. At first glance, it seemed to be a tourist spot — benches, Adirondack chairs, and glass-encased map of Catrina Island to prove it. It was obviously abandoned following the outbreak, though — here wasn't a sunburnt islander in sight, and for a minute, Heather felt pretty confident that she may be the only one to enjoy the spot. Then on the deck, something moved.

Heather froze, hand going instinctively to the folding knife on her belt. When the shadow moved again and entered the light, revealing a head of shaggy dark hair and a familiar hoodie, she relaxed. It was just Chris — who last she checked, wasn't talking to her.

For a minute, she debated turning around and going back to the Abigail, then quickly dismissed it. He was the one that started the fight — if he was going to throw a tantrum, then he could go back to the ship. She didn't have anything to be ashamed of.