The Return of Shane Vol 2: The Walking Dead (Final Cut)

"ATLAS"

Chapter 4

Shane was spent; he collapsed on the roof.

"Don't tell me you passed out again?" Phillip shouted to Shane from the ground. Disgusted, Phillip chastised under his breath, "Un-fucking believable."

"I'm just catching my breath. At least I didn't try to take a load off in the middle of the crisis," Shane countered.

Touché, thought Phillip. "Well, do you plan on ID-ing these people any time soon?"

The stickiness of Shane's blood glued the black, Kevlar jumpsuit to his frame, which indicated that he'd been bleeding out for a very long time. "I popped my stitches," he complained.

"Why didn't you say something earlier? I'll be up in a second," replied Phillip. Phillip noticed there were still three remaining walkers in the house. "There's some stragglers; give me a few minutes."

He made quick work of the dead, his bowie blades slicing through the skulls of the walkers with ease. A dark grin of satisfaction crept onto Phillip's face as the corpses fell to the ground. His hazel eyes inspected the living room. It was rather basic; the family couch was pushed to the side and bags of gear were stacked in the room. The clutter indicated that whoever was here had left in a hurry, without taking any of their tools. Phillip strongly suspected that Shane's friends were dead.

His eyes caught a large photograph of a dark-haired girl, smiling in her cap and gown. Her smile was broad, warm, and inviting. Phillip continued to search the house, ensuring more dead weren't wandering about in the closets. "Score!" he exclaimed, rushing over to the tan guitar that lay against the wall. The guitar had been found by Dale, and was intended for Glenn—but today, it was Phillip's.

Phillip joined Shane on the roof. Shane had managed to take down the form-fitting combat suit, exposing his torso. "What the hell you gonna do with that guitar, Darius Rucker?"

"Darius—who? Anyway, never you mind. Let me see that wound," Phillip dropped the guitar and retrieved the large, black duffel bag stuffed with goods. Digging out the medical supplies, Phillip cleaned up Shane's wound.

"I thought the Fairy Godfather was the medic," Shane taunted.

"First off, that's my husband you're talking about, so watch your fucking mouth. Secondly, you have the phrase 'Lil Bird' on your tit, which opens a Pandora's box of questions. And lastly, I'm a proficient battle-trauma medic. I did those stitches in your face, by the way."

"For a guy who indulges in sarcasm during seventy-five percent of all conversations, you really are sensitive," Shane noted. "Ouch! Can you watch that needle?"

"Sorry if I'm not being gentle enough with this crude stitch job," retorted Phillip. "Now stop moving, I'm almost done."

Luckily for Shane, Phillip managed to close the wound. He sponged the blood that surrounded the deep cut in Shane's chest, then used wrap bandages around his ribcage to help bind and secure the wound. "Alright, then," Phillip said, after taking a good look at his work. "You look like Tutankhamun, but you should be good at this point."

The officer was appreciative. "Thanks man; it feels pretty tight."

"Not the first time I've heard that one tonight," remarked Phillip coyly.

It took Shane a second before he let out a grossed-out shudder. "T-M-fucking-I, man."

"Hey, stop bitching," Phillip replied. "I probably should have brought some pain killers."

"Hell, yeah. That would have been nice."

"Luckily for me, I got the next best thing," said Phillip. From the breast pocket of his jumpsuit, he retrieved a small, silver cigarette case. With his thumb, he opened the shiny box and removed one brown, thin cigar.