The Walking Dead: Three Knives (a fanfiction, based off of Season 3 & 4)

Chapter 5- Quick Stop

SO. I'm sorry that this chapter is going to be boring, but you have to admit, when the world is dead you need to stop and wash up every once in a while. The next chapter will be more exciting!  I'll upload it later tonight or tomorrow unless I get held up. Enjoy!

“Shit!” I spit as walkers start emerging from every direction. Six were already fast walking towards me, and not to mention the ones in the windows of houses I’ve awoken. I dart over to the dead walker to retrieve my knife. Quickly observing the white house in front of me, I stab two walkers on the way running towards the gutter pipe and try to crawl up it quickly, but I yelp in pain when my hand slides against a loose nail. Damn houses.

I am hoisting myself onto the roof when I feel something grab my foot. I immediately go into panic mode and start kicking, but the walker won’t let go. I could stab it with one of my knives, but I’m afraid I’ll lose my grip on the roof. I decide I have to risk it though, because it won’t be long before the walker drags me down, or another grabs my foot. Its mouth is only two inches away from my ankle when I stab it in the head. I try with all my might to lift myself up, but I fall back onto the ground, knocking the wind right out of me. I lost my grip strength. This seemed to motivate the walkers to move a bit faster. I haven’t gotten into this situation- ever. I crawl up the gutter pipe as fast as I can again and find trouble lifting myself over the roof like before. To my advantage, a walker breaks through the window that I had just passed up. The thing stares up at me in hunger, and I use its head to help push me to the roof.

                “Thank you!” I say as the walker falls out of the window.

                I collapse on the roof and look up at the sky, nearly out of breath. I start laughing. How close was I to becoming a meal? Just another day of survival.

                The incision on my hand burns, and it gushes blood. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had an injury this severe. I try climbing trees and then jumping onto the roofs of different houses, but the pain in my hand gets worse; I have to stop. I am on the roof of a two story house as of now, basking in what’s left of the setting sun. My eyes gaze back down at my hand, and I know that I have to stop the bleeding and clean it, but I didn’t have anything to bandage it. All I carried was my knives, and a survival straw in my pocket that my uncle had gotten for me on my twelfth birthday. You could drink any water, such as from oceans or ponds, but the straw filtered it and made it safe and fresh to drink. I’m thankful he’d gotten it for me, or else I’d have been dead of dehydration a long time ago.

                Houses make me uncomfortable. Whenever I’ve made errands I never risked checking out a house unless it was absolutely voluntary. Stores were all right because they were big. But houses? I didn’t know the layout of the house, and there tends to be walkers in most of them, but I have to find something for this wound.

                I sigh, and my heart starts to beat. I try to calm myself but like I said, houses made me uncomfortable.

                I ease over the edge of the roof, legs first. There is a shut window in front of me and I hope it isn’t locked. If I had to break it I’d be making a scene, and may never have a successful trip back to Woodbury.

                I didn’t know why I was so eager to observe the place. I just had a feeling, like I was meant to find out what Mr. Eyepatch was cooking up.

                Thankfully, the window slides steadily open as I push it up with my foot. The curtains were down so I had no idea what I was about to walk into. I pull a finger down on one of the shades and find out that ironically, it is a bathroom. There seemed to be nobody inside, and the door is shut.

                I sneak inside the window and check the shower to make sure there’s nothing to surprise me. As quietly as possible, I start opening drawers. Conveniently, I find a whole roll of gauze that I can wrap my hand in along with a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. From past experiences I knew how much it burned to pour alcohol onto a gaping incision, but I couldn’t risk it being infected and having to possibly amputate it off by myself.

                Closing my eyes, I pour the alcohol on my hand.

                “Ouchhhh!” I hiss, and grunt. It doesn’t help when you’re really, really dirty. It’s not necessarily my fault that there’s no running water.

                The burning doesn’t stop, but I wrap the gauze around and around my hand. Hopefully it will heal fast and won’t violate my knife throwing.

                Just for the shits of it, I turn the faucet handle on. No water comes out. Why am I not surprised? But I couldn’t ignore the screaming agony my throat felt. I needed water. I search through the rest of the cabinets and find nothing. I reach for the door, hesitating for a bit, but then open it. The door opens to a bedroom, and voila! There is a walker inside.

                “Fuuuuckkkkk.” I groan. I wasn’t nervous, but I was literally bored. How many times was I going to have to kill these sons a bitches?

                The walker turns to face me, but I throw my knife at it. It hits it dead on in the center between its eyes. I quickly look around the room and find that it is the only walker.

                The bedroom is plain. The walls are still somehow white, and the carpets are creamy, except for the spot where the walker lays. The bed is messed up and there is a picture of a wife with her husband who is wearing an army uniform. I recognize him as the walker I’ve just killed. Such a shame. They looked to be a happy couple.

                I pick up the picture and behind it, just for me it seems, there is a bottle of Gatorade a quarter of the way filled. I guzzle it down in a second, then start rummaging through their dresser drawers. The girl looked to be my size in clothes, but all I find is lingerie, pajamas, and some plane t shirts and jeans. None suitable for me.

                Which it’s okay I guess. My clothes were the only part I had left of me anyway: my black combat boots, black tank top, and dark brown pants with a belt that upholstered my knives.

                Tossing the Gatorade bottle onto the bed and retrieving my knive, I walk back through the bathroom, shutting the door, just to be safe. I am about to walk out the window, but then glance at the bottle of alcohol. It was the best shower I could get in maybe forever. I take face pads out from the drawer, drenching them in alcohol and then rubbing it on my face, neck, back, chest; anywhere dirty, The pad is black when I’m done, but I am satisfied to how much cleaner I feel. I take another face pad with alcohol and clean my bloodied knives. Then, I find a razor… I don’t care how dead the world is, unshaven arm pits are just… ewe. So of course, I shave them, and then apply deodorant from the counter, along with perfume.

                Happy that I decided to do what I did, I finally leave, climbing back onto the roof top. I jump into the nearest tree, climb high, and then jump onto the next tree. It’d be a short while before I reached Woodbury, and I couldn’t procrastinate any longer.

                I had to see what that Phillip was up to.