Vanessa Taylor, a sassy blue haired, tattooed cosmetologist with a mouth of a sailor was born and raised in Ohio. One summer while she was visiting her sick father, her connecting flight ends in the city getting shut down, leaving her stranded in th...
I hang my head, pointedly ignoring Michonne snap harshly at Daryl while he and James work tirelessly together to toss another body to the pile that is growing at an alarming rate. The corpse lands with a wet thud. My nose scrunches as nausea hits me like a freight train from the smell of necrosis that's wafting from the mound of death. I wipe the sweat that kisses the flesh along my forehead, hoping and praying to a god I don't have faith in that the bile stays in my stomach. With my current physical state, I decide to stay out of whatever fight breaks out next. Tensions are high, and we are so incredibly exhausted. Today, this is not my circus, nor are they my monkeys.
It's been yet another day of fighting the walkers to save our community from being overrun. It feels as if we have yet to create a dent in the constant waves of the dead. Something needs to give; I'd love to sleep for a week after this. However, I have a feeling I won't be so lucky. We have never been that lucky.
Wren sighs, eyes observing Michonne and Daryl, chewing on her lips in thought, "hey Ness, do you think this is them?" She whispers, coming to stand next to me, our backs to our company.
I click my tongue against my teeth, "I know what I think and what everyone else thinks. One is not like the other." Shrugging, "I don't get paid enough to express what I think."
I glance over my shoulder, spotting a skin walker approaching us. Her hair reminds me of a dirty blood dried red; it hangs in dingy curls that frame her masked face.
"I have a feeling my theory is about to be confirmed," I mention offhandedly to my best friend before turning my frame, joining my husband and Michonne. Curiosity always gets the best of me, what can I say? Wren steps back, allowing me to take up the space between the aforementioned duo. I hear James near silent footfalls join my favorite redhead.
"The north border. Now." The stranger orders sternly.
"Call off your walkers." Michonne warns.
"Not us."
I believe her, I silently muse. I shift uncomfortably as the tension grows thick between the four of us. The enemies eyes zero in on the sudden movement coming from my direction. It doesn't take a genius to realize she's surveying my deposition. I spot a sudden lightening of her shoulders as she notices I might be the only one who has come to this conclusion. I might believe her, but I only trust her as far as I can throw her.
Daryl scoffs, ignoring my fidgeting, "yeah, right."
"Not. Us." She growls through clenched teeth, "go to the border, lay down your weapons, and wait."
"Wait for what?" Daryl inquires.
"Her." She speaks without another word. She spins on her heels, heading off to return to her own group, leaving us to our own thoughts.
Her. Alpha. I clench my fist, resisting the urge to run to the meeting of the enemy blind. My swords suddenly heavy along my back, singing sweet blood fueled lullabies. She's only still breathing because I have children that are relying on me to stay alive. I can't make any reckless calls. However, I can't help but wonder; what the hell does she want now?
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