Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bright light was piercing his eyes, and Tyler awoke with a start.

Falling asleep was dangerous, and every second of illusionary safety was more than he could allow himself to feel. All hope was lost these days, and the slightest spark of it had to be suffocated before it could poison his mind and seep like venom into his veins.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes frantically, trying to get the everpresent dust out of his sticky eyelashes. He had trouble keeping his eyes open, the exhaustion that had settled into his bones weeks ago taking its toll on his emaciated body.

The barn he had chosen for the night was flooded with pale sunlight. It was unmistakenly still early in the day; the eerie silence clouding his senses briefly interrupted by the quiet bristling of rotting hay underneath him as he got up. His backpack was exactly where he had left it the night before, always unpacked, his few possessions stuffed into it messily. The machete was hanging loosely from his side where it was hastily attached it to his belt - he was always ready to run if it became necessary. He didn't even take the weapon off when he felt safe; a trait he had picked up soon after the outbreak.

Tyler grabbed his belongings, shouldered his bag and let a last gaze flicker through the barn to make sure that he didn't forget anything. His throat was burning roughly, as if he'd tried to eat barbwire the night before. He was thirsty, but he didn't have much water left. For a brief second, he considered risking it and drinking his last few drops, but he casted away the idea quickly. This wasn't the time for unnecessary risks.

The wood was splintering under his fingers as he slowly opened the huge door of the barn, sticking his head out carefully to check if the street laid out before him was empty. Not even empty streets were safe streets, but at least he would have better chances that way. Atlanta was still far, and he didn't have any illusions about actually making it there, but he had promised his mum and his sister that he would try, and he didn't break a promise. Especially not one he had made to his family while they were facing death.

Tyler forced himself to not think about the moment, to not think about the dead eyes with which his mum had hunted him out the door and into the arms of a buff looking soldier that had come to pick them all up, just a few hours too late. His mum had been bitten and was trying to kill him, his sister was already dead, but there was no way he'd leave his childhood home without a fight. Why should he live? What did he have left to live for?

He also didn't think about the gunshot and the way his mother's head had been spluttering everywhere, didn't think about the red stains scattered all over the floor and his face and his clothes. He didn't think about his legs kicking and his arms throwing punches that went into thin air messily, about his screams of agony as he had been dragged away from his dead mum. At that moment, he had decided that death was more desireable than whatever else was to come. And yet, he was still here. The soldier that had taken him was dead, the company he had gone with was dead, and he was still alive. How was that fair?

He cautiously shut the door behind his back, trying to avoid any kind of noise that could attract walkers.

They didn't have good eyesight, they weren't fast, but their animalistic and deathly hunger was fueling enough for them to be a real thread. The machete he carried wasn't just a prop; it had seen blood and even though Tyler knew this wasn't something he should be proud of, his memories of the blade slashing necks and beheading walkers filled him with a certain feeling of accomplishment.

He stretched his neck, straightened his shoulders, fixed his eyes on the horizon and started walking.

The midday sun was burning his skin. Beads of sweat were running down his forehead and into his shirt with every step he took, leaving traces of dirt wherever they went. He hadn't washed himself in days, and he was covered in dust, stonily fossilized in every crease of his clothes and on every inch of his body. He was aching for water, his throat like sandpaper, but he hadn't passed any kind of farm or house in ages. If he didn't find something to drink soon, he'd die pitifully and uselessly in the roadside ditch from thirst.

After what felt like hours, the familiar silouette of a gas station appeared on the horizon. He was squinting, unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him; the thirst and starvation and heat causing his consciousness to revolt against any idea of possibly, maybe, for once being lucky enough to find exactly the thing he needed.

But the gas station didn't disappear, no; in fact, he felt like it was coming closer, actually coming closer as he took step after heavy step towards it. If he could just make it there, maybe he'd have a chance to live another day.

He saw the movement in his peripheral view before the heaving groan of a walker right beside him rang in his ears, and the machete was in his hand before he even knew what he was doing, leashing out as it cut through skin and muscle and bone, and the gargling noise of the walker sinking to the ground was loud enough to have Tyler gasp out in fear. This couldn't happen. It was too loud, it would attract more of them, and he couldn't take on more than two at a time.

Frantically, he hacked into the twitching body, dismembering it until it was just a stash of skin and bone and muddy dried blood and guts, and the gargling noise died with the last twitches of the muscles being torn to shreds.

His hand wiped through his face messily, smearing blood and dirt and sweat everywhere, but he couldn't care less. He needed to find cover, needed to hide out until the undoubtedly incoming flood of walkers had passed through. Where there was one walker, there were others, and no way could he take them all out.

He was running, the glistening red machete still in his hand, leaving a trail of dark brown drops in the sand -- his fist was clenching around it hard enough to make his knuckles crack and his fingers hurt. If he'd just make it to the gast station, he would be safe. Safer.

The figurines seemed to appear out of thin air, sharp shadows against the dying sun on the horizon, the air flirring around them and disfiguring them until they looked like demons, and Tyler knew in that moment that it was already too late. They were between him and the station, and there were too many, around 20, if he had to guess, and his heart didn't even jump at the imminent conclusion that this was it, this was how he'd die.

He stopped running.

He watched them, watched them stumble closer, grimaced, half-rotten faces and guts and greyish skin in blisters and shreds hanging from dead bones. One of them was wearing a Metallica shirt, he noticed, and somehow he found that absolutely hilarious. He chuckled, his mind calm and blank and empty as he took off his backpack, fiddled out the bottle, popped it open. At least he wouldn't die thirsty, he thought, and the irony of it all made him laugh. He was definitely in shock.

The first of them reached him, hitting the bottle out of his hand while grabbing with dead fingers, and that wasn't okay. They should at least let him drink before they gutted him.

It was as if his arm somehow developed its own mind, the machete snaking forward fast as lightning, with a straight slide beheading the walker that had dared to touch his bottle. He scrambled to the ground, half-deliriously reaching for the metallic glint of his thermos, and then the second walker was there, burying him beneath his rotting body, and Tyler was laughing, tears spluttering all over his face as he screamed and kicked and cried and laughed. "Get off of me!"

The soaring sound of an engine distracted the walkers, and Tyler used the momentary pause to grab his bottle. He wasn't even sure anymore why the damn bottle was so important, but it seemed like the only object that mattered in the world right now. If he just got his bottle, everything would be alright.

He was surrounded by walkers by now, clawing and biting into air as he kept kicking them away, stumbling and tripping over each other as they tried to get ahold of him, and then there were gunshots exploding in his ears, and he couldn't hear anymore. Great, he thought, seconds before dying he also had to ruin his eardrums. What a way to go. He laughed again as a walker fell onto him, punching the last air out of his lungs while burying him in the ground, and the world went black.

Strong arms pulled him out from underneath the pile of dead bodies, and Tyler blinked into the soft colors of the sunset as he struggled to regain his consciousness. Sunsets shouldn't still be this beautiful, he thought. The red pastels shouldn't be pretty, they should be angry and fiery and they should remind him of blood, but they didn't.

He also should be dead. He was supposed to be dead, but he wasn't. Things never went the way they were planned these days, he thought, choking out a guturral laugh.

His mouth was filled with dust, and he spat out, coughed, crawled away from the disgusting disaster of flesh and guts, crawled until a pair of boots came into view.

"You're alive."

The voice was muffled and rough and human and the most relieving thing he had heard in weeks.

Alive. He wasn't sure if he was alive, but if the man said so, he probably was.

Tyler fought to sit up, body hunched over and limp as he tried to catch his breath, still breathing in dirt, and he coughed again, blinking up to the silouette of the man towering above him.

He had a shotgun resting casually on his shoulder, dirty leather clothes -- a bandana strung tightly across his face, covering his mouth and nose, only leaving his messy hair and his piercing brown eyes free. Tyler thought that he had never imagined angels to look like that.

The man pulled down the bandana, revealing a strong jaw, rough features, a scar across half of his face that Tyler hadn't been able to see before. A hand was extended to him, and Tyler was momentarily lost as to what he was supposed to do with it.

"You should come with me. I can protect you."

Tyler took the hand, and he was pulled out of the dirty gutter.

"I'm Josh", said the man, and Tyler felt like introductions were weirdly out of place in a world where names didn't matter, because there were no living people around to use them anyways.

"I'm Tyler", he replied, voice scratchy and nervous and dusty like the dry road.

"We should get out of here, Tyler. There are more biters coming."

"Walkers."

"What?"

"They're called walkers."

"I don't care what they're called. We have to get out of here."

He was dragged towards a lonely, black motorcycle lying in the trench, and as he climbed onto it and dug his hands into the hard leather of Josh's jacket, he thought that maybe, after all, he had found a way to survive.

The engine roared, and for the first time in weeks, Tyler wasn't afraid.

His bottle was lying forgotten in the sand as they drove towards the setting sun, towards Atlanta, and with every mile rolling away underneath the wheels of the bike, Tyler allowed himself another ounce of hope.

He wasn't alone anymore.

Josh could protect him.

Chapter Text

It didn't take them long to the city, now that they we're on the road, but still -- Tyler was thankful for the roaring engine that deafened his ears and made every attempt at talking impossible.

He wasn't even sure what he could've said. What do you talk about when nothing really mattered anymore, and you were quite possibly the last human beings on earth? The weather? Probably not.

After what felt like both the longest and shortest ride of his life, they pulled over at one of the first buildings they'd come close to.

"Off."

"What?"

"Hands off. My waist."

"Oh." With a strangled noise Tyler forced his hands off of Josh's jacket, clammy and smudged with a disgusting mixture of sweat and dirt and probably blood. His legs were still wobbly when they hit the dusty ground, but he forced himself to stand up straight. He didn't know the other man, after all, and he could still just attempt to rob him and leave him to die. Trust wasn't something he could afford.

"You tryn'a kill me or what?"

"No, I -- why would you --"

"I won't kill you either. So you can let go of your machete."

"Oh." It seemed like all he could do these days was stutter and say 'oh'. "I didn't notice..."

"It's alright. I get it. But I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? Told you I'd protect ya."

"But why?"

Josh gave him a long, thoughtful gaze, and even though his stare seemed cold and dark, Tyler felt like somewhere, deep down, there was still a spark of hope, carefully guarded behind toughness.

"You're the first alive person I've met since the outbreak. Since my parents got infected. I'd be stupid to kill ya, is all. Four eyes and four ears are better than two."

"Okay."

Josh shouldered his weapon, pushed the bike behind a metal plate that was leaning against the front wall of the house and gestured for Tyler to lead the way towards the door. It was heavy, wooden, barricaded with speers drilled into the stone hard ground in front of it. Some were bloody. Tyler shivered; wasn't sure why. He should be tougher than that.

"You aren't gonna collapse or somethin', are ya."

"No. I'm fine. Just haven't eaten in a while. Bit dehydrated, too. But I'm okay."

"I got food and water inside. Seems to be your lucky day", Josh snorted and closed the door behind them. The irony of a concept as foreign as a lucky day wasn't lost on either of them, given their situation. Tyler just didn't find it funny.

The house was dusty, as everything these days, and the air was heavy and made it hard to breathe, but the simple confinement and safety of four stone walls around him was enough for Tyler to let out a shaky breath of relief.

"I didn't say thank you yet", he remarked while taking in the sparse furniture -- a single bed, some cupboards, a simple kitchen and a few backpacks in one corner of the room.

"No need to."

"Yeah, definitely. You saved my life out there. I was ready, you know? To just - stop fighting."

Tyler wasn't sure why that was important, why he even told this pretty much complete stranger, but he felt like it needed to be said.

"I know. Laughing like a maniac, fuckin' nutcase. First thing you lose out there is your sanity. Can't let that happen, you hear me? Gotta keep a clear head or you're dead."

As if that was any kind of news for Tyler.

"I'm not a nutcase", he defended himself, but he had to admit that it probably looked like that when Josh had found him.

"Alright."

Josh started rummaging in one of the cupboards, and Tyler just stood there, lost in the middle of the room, before he decided to sit down on the bed -- there wasn't any other place to sit on, after all.

"Water. One bottle, for now. Don't drink too fast or you'll puke. So, don't waste it. ... And canned peaches. Will get your blood sugar right back up."

Tyler caught both of the items in his lap as the other threw them his way, hardly contained desperation as he downed half a bottle, disregarding Josh's words completely. The water almost stung on its way down his dry throat, and he coughed up a few sips, gargled pitifully, but he was so thirsty that he simply couldn't stop.

"I said -", Josh groaned, making his way over to Tyler with two huge steps, tearing the bottle out of Tyler's death grip, "- slow!"

Without warning, Tyler choked up another torrent of water, watching with something close to agony as it got lost in the endless dirt that seemed to be everywhere nowadays.

"Sorry", he whispered, the shame crawling up on his neck like spiders.

"Told you to go slow. Eat the peaches. Then more water, alright?"

Tyler nodded, digging into the sweet softness of the halved peaches.

Josh still hadn't taken off his leather jacket, even though he must've been dying of heat in there.

"Do you actually, like.. live here?", Tyler eventually asked, mouth still half-full of fruit. The idea seemed almost laughable, that anyone could afford the comfort of a home, even if it was just something like a better barn on the outcasts of town. "Aren't there like thousands of walkers in the city?"

Finally getting rid of his backpack and the bandana around his neck, Josh slumped down into the dirt next to his belongings, back against the bare wall across from the bed. "Yeah. And yeah."

He expected Josh to elaborate, but he didn't follow up.

"Okay", Tyler said, because there wasn't anything else he could think of.

With a sigh, Josh used the back of his hand to wipe away the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Tyler had trouble actually looking at Josh, the angry red scar right across his face slightly unsettling.

"The biters aren't the biggest problem. Food is, and water. So I stay close to the city. Has grocery shops and pharmacies and weapon stores."

"Right. Makes sense."

"Yeah. So when did you lose your family?"

The question was like a punch to the guts, and Tyler froze in place, mind blank for a second. "Excuse me?"

"What? You think dancin' round it would be better? Because nah. I'm not doing that. Fucking end of civilization and you care about being polite. Alright. Die with a 'sorry' on your lips."

"Okay, listen, you -- you jerk, it's none of your business, alright? I barely know you."

"Fine", Josh said and unscrewed another bottle of water, taking measured sips before coughing out a hoarse laugh.

"Fine", Tyler repeated, and then they sat in silence for what felt like hours, but probably wasn't even minutes.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Did you hear about the camps?"

"What camps?"

"There are camps just outside of Atlanta. For survivors. The army set them up, and they broadcasted about it until the radios stopped working and the electricity died. I'm trying to get there."

Josh laughed, another hearty, barked noise in the silence of the dead world around them.

"You really think those still exist? They've been overrun by biters. Everything's gone, okay? No use holding on to any hope."

"But what do we have left if there isn't even hope?" It was frustrating, hearing his plans being all teared up and ridiculed by some motorcycle-freak. What did he know? He probably hadn't even gotten out of this goddamn city so far.

"To survive. And kill as many of those bastards as possible on our way out."

"That's... that's just sad."

"Nah. That's being fucking realistic, Tyler."

It was the first time Josh had said his name, and for some reason, it made the hard tone of his voice feel even more painful.

"Fine. You stay here. I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm gonna look for those camps", he insisted and glared at Josh from across the room.

"You ain't going anywhere", Josh growled and stared back, and if he expected Tyler to back down, well, he had gotten the wrong guy. He wouldn't be held back by some asshole guy in a leather jacket that seemed to be glued to his damn body.

"Watch me."

He was almost ready to stomp out of the house just for the purpose of being dramatic, but the sudden noise coming from outside made him stop in his tracks.

"Josh?"

"Shut up." His voice was so close to Tyler, he imagined he could feel Josh breathe down his neck. "Be quiet. Stay on the other side of the room. I'll be right back."

Tyler wasn't sure how Josh had grabbed his shotgun so damn fast without making any noise whatsoever, but his heart was already jumping out of his chest as his mind caught up and he got ahold of his machete.

"Where are you going?", he whispered urgently, but Josh didn't answer -- the only reply he got was the soft thud of the heavy door closing behind Josh's back.

"Josh!"