𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 '𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭 - The Walking Dead Fanfic

𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. - Anne Lamont

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𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟑𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎

𝟐 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤.

It was freezing. I had given my sweater to Paige. We'd been at the gas station for... I don't know, maybe a couple weeks now. Long enough that the musty smell inside didn't hit as hard anymore, and I knew which floor tiles creaked the loudest if I stepped on them.

Dad had picked this place after we'd gone miles out of the city, looking for somewhere "safe" — whatever that meant now. It was cramped, just a single room with broken shelves and an old, torn-up mattress in the back. Paige and I shared it, while Dad usually slept near the door with an old blanket he found. He barely talked to me unless he was scolding me about Paige, snapping at me to quiet her down when she cried or to feed her even when we barely had enough for ourselves.

This morning, he shook me awake, his hand rough on my shoulder, barely giving me time to open my eyes. "Up," he muttered, his voice gruff.

I had to force myself up, still half-asleep, and followed him to the doors. The cold morning air hit me like a slap, and I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the sharp pangs of hunger. But my dad was already barking orders before I could even shake off the chill.

"If you'd just listened to me, we wouldn't be stuck out here," he said, shooting me a glare. Whatever the hell he meant by that. I looked away, swallowing back my frustration. Every time he snapped like that, I just kept quiet, hoping he'd get over it.

He never did.

He just stomped across the cracked pavement, muttering to himself. I trailed behind, watching him move like he was itching for something—probably another beer he couldn't get his hands on out here. Or maybe just someone to yell at. His head turned to the side, and he threw a quick look at me over his shoulder.

"There's a car over there," he said, jerking his chin toward a rusted old sedan a few yards away, its windows shattered and frame tilted in the dirt. "See if there's anything useful in it."

I stared at it for a second. The car was covered in grime, with bits of broken glass glinting in the morning sun. A part of me wanted to argue, to remind him that we'd already checked every car around here twice, but I knew better than to push back when he was like this. I walked over to the sedan, my fingers numb as I gripped the handle and yanked it open. Inside was the same mess as always—crumbled wrappers, torn seat fabric, the faint smell of something rotten. I leaned in anyway, rummaging through the glove compartment and the backseat, just to make it look like I was doing what he wanted.

Behind me, I could hear him pacing, muttering curses under his breath.

My hand brushed against something cold and solid under the seat—a pocket knife. It felt heavy in my grip, and the blade was still sharp enough to be useful. I pulled it out, turning to show my dad, hoping maybe he'd have a decent reaction for once.

But the second he saw it, he yanked it out of my hand, a little too hard. The blade nicked my palm, and a thin line of blood welled up, stinging in the morning air. I winced, clutching my hand, but he didn't even notice. His eyes were on the knife, flipping it open and closed with an intensity that made my stomach twist.

"Go check the other car," he snapped, jerking his thumb in the opposite direction.

I hesitated, the pain in my palm mixing with the growing anxiety in my chest. "But, Dad—"