ROOKIE ; glenn r. & maggie g.

ATLANTA

Bloodshot, filmy eyes gleam, not a thought behind them, putrescent teeth chittering—snapping when they draw too near, or when the faintest trace of alive is the slightest bit perceptible. Purblind hounds drawing out their prey, hissing with resentment.

The SWAT-issued baton is loose in her palm, glinting under dim sunlight after each walker they pass, each suspicious twist of a snarl, almost like they have the capacity to be suspicious.

Anxiety runs rampant across nerves, limbs cold with terror. One wrong move, one wrong move and they'd have every geek in Atlanta tearing them apart.

Glenn navigates the streets well, even with the slump in his walk, and death on his heel. Turgid minutes pass before she feels comfortable lifting her gaze again, and by habit they flit over to Glenn. He finds her eyes in the crowd; crowbar quivering, a geek hovering over his shoulder, and he still chances a small grin at her. The act is minuscule, but its meaning clear—unfeigned consolation despite his own trepidation. Like a summer breeze, it washes over her, cooling the thrumming in her chest, and sating her thirst for solace.

Beckett quirks her lip back to him, just as authentic, just as subtle. She only lets it fall when Rick glimpses over, his brows knit together.

"Don't be distracted." Words curl between his limp jaw, only loud enough to carry over the groans.

"Don't know if I could smelling like this," she murmurs mostly to herself.

Glenn's hand brushes against hers. Even if it is just his lack of coordination while hobbling around, she tries to think that maybe they are friends of some sort. But she knows what Glenn would think about if he knew what she did to Jason. How much of a coward she is.

"It's going to work," Glenn whispers. "I can't believe it."

Her knees ache from the slant in their posture, but she can't help but feel hopeful too. The fence is in the horizon, another hour and they'll be able to feel it under their fingers.

A walker joins the conversation, snarling near Glenn's cheek. Beckett's breaths grow short, adrenaline fizzling into her feet. But Glenn groans, and gargles, and it almost seems annoyed to be proven wrong, stumbling forewords begrudgingly. Glenn lets out a brief sigh of relief, but her own is cut off when her eye pricks.

Initially she panics, her first thought that geek blood is in her, infecting her brain by direct contact. But it happens again, and then on her cheek. Thunder crackles above them. The realization is not much of a reprieve, because the smell sitting on her stomach begins to fade as the rain strengthens.

Glenn's hat sags against his forehead and her uniform is heavy on her shoulders. Tension fills the crowd, walker turning on walker, bustling into each other, searching for the culprit. It doesn't take long for them to narrow their suspicions.

"It's washing off," Glenn says, his volume fighting against the storm. He becomes frantic with each breath, each hungry stare settling on them. "Is it washing off?"

Beckett hobbles faster. This amount of them, it's nothing close to the riots. She shares a nervous glance with Rick. He shakes his head.

"It's not," Rick denies firmly. He almost walks into a Geek as it comes to a full stop, enamored with him. Sniffing. He falters, "Okay, maybe."

The roar jerks her out of whatever lingering sense of security she has, and when she looks back, it's missing half its face as it collapses. Rick's axe takes out another, and another, and they're running. Glenn yells with each hit he lands, and she can't remember how many he's actually fought.

What was a straight shot becomes an awkward zigzag, walkers advancing on all sides. Her vest weighs her down, and Rick easily passes, flinging his axe over the fence and grappling onto it. She tries to mimic him, retracting her baton with enough muscle memory to not lose a second but SWAT boots aren't meant for hopping fences with a flesh-ravenous horde chasing behind. The rain only makes it worse—they're too bulky, and the trek slips right off. Her back clatters to the ground, a forming puddle splashing into her face, blinding. The air is sucked from Beckett's lungs in an instant, and she's left croaking on the street, clawing at her eyes.