THE END TO AN ERA the walking dead

2. weight of sin

While Ira was originally born and raised in Virginia, he had always felt more at home in Oregon. The hills and mountains of the Pacific Northwest acted as shield from the memories of the east coast. He had been resentful when he was first sent to the military academy, but acclimated to the structure and felt strangely belonging among his peers. The more time he spent with them, the more they became his family. And the less his own back in Virginia felt.

Ira had lived a few hours drive from the chilly beaches. Him and his friends had made trips as often as they could, and never missed an opportunity to tease Ira for never making it past the first hour before falling asleep. Always lulled by the gentle rock of the vehicle and the soft roar of pavement under the tires.

But being unconscious and unceremoniously hauled into an RV was new.

Ira didn't want to open his eyes yet. It was calm and familiar like those trips to the grey beaches. The occasional bend in the road or dip in the pavement seemed to coddle him as he savors the memories.

Sunlight filters through the trees just to rest upon his closed eyes. He didn't think or move, allowing himself to bask in this minuscule moment of calm. He barely even registers the large pop! followed by a hiss as the RV slows to a stop.

And as much as he wants to ignore it, he blinks his eyes open and sits up. Ira's head is quick to smart at the sudden motion. "Holy shit," he groans, bringing up a hand to massage his head.

"Well, good morning," Ira turns and squints his blurry eyes to focus on the figure beside him.

"Oh, hey Jim. What's going on?" Ira sits up the rest of the way slowly, adjusting his rumpled clothes.

Jim sighs, messing with his fingers and gazing out the window. "Sounded like the RV gave out, I'm not sure."

Ira's eyes trail over Jim. To say that the older man looked unwell would be an understatement. His normally tan skin from the Georgia sun had paled and looked clammy. His teeth were chattering and he shook like a leaf on a breezy day. Ira's gaze becomes concerned.

"Are you ok, Jim?"

Jim turns to him with a pained smile. "I was bit,"

Ira's expression turns to pity before he can stop it. "I'm so sorry, Jim."

"We're heading to the CDC to see if they can fix me- if they can fix this," he gestures to the world beyond them. "but I can't take this much longer."

Ira tries to give him a reassuring smile, but it just feels fake. "Everything will be ok, no matter what happens. I'm gonna see what's going on and stretch my legs."

He excuses himself and staggers to the front of the RV with the grace of a newborn giraffe with a head injury. Looking through the windshield, he can see Shane and T-Dog watching to horizon for walkers or unfriendlies; Dale bucket hat pokes from the Winnebago's hood occasionally as he tinkers away. Everyone else is standing and talking, unsure of their next move. Making sure he has a good grip of the handrail, Ira steps out and quickly shields his eyes with his opposite hand. The sun seems more intense in Georgia, but maybe that's just him.

"Ira," Rick exclaims as his eyes catch movement from the RV. He steps over and gives the younger man a friendly clap on the shoulder. "It's good to see you on your feet, you took a good hit to the head."

Ira gives him a small smile and warmth blooms in his chest at Rick's concern. "Ya, I still feel it. But, I think you should talk with Jim, he's not doing too good." Rick nods and steps in the RV as Ira steps out. The crackling of broken pavement and debris underfoot announce his arrival to Dale, who smiles.