𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒, the walking dead

8.

A/N: Hi all!! sorry for not updating for a while i lost a lot of motivation LOL... but i'm gonna kind of rush through the sickness arc bc its lowk hard to write... plz bear with me as i try to stuff it into this chapter

❝ 𝖥𝖮𝖮𝖫 𝖤𝖭𝖮𝖴𝖦𝖧 𝖳𝖮 𝖠𝖫𝖬𝖮𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤 𝖨𝖳,
𝖢𝖮𝖮𝖫 𝖤𝖭𝖮𝖴𝖦𝖧 𝖳𝖮 𝖭𝖮𝖳 𝖰𝖴𝖨𝖳𝖤 𝖲𝖤𝖤 𝖨𝖳 . ❞

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A week later, people were getting very sick.

Ross had never seen anything like it, not even before. It was like some awful, magnified strand of the flu. People were bleeding from every oraface possible. by some magical coincidence, he hasn't gotten sick yet, but pretty much everyone else who'd been in the cell has. Carl and Leon were with the rest of the kids somewhere else, Hershel there to watch them. Alfie and Glenn had gotten sick, and it was obvious that Zoe was worrying herself to death over it.

Ross was keeping his distance while trying to be as helpful as possible. He and Zoe had made makeshift masks for everyone who'd been helping those who were infected. The prison's doctor had described the disease as people's blood becoming too hot and "boiling over". That only inspired Ross to stay farther away. Bowie had been more open with him, gravitating more towards him and Zoe than his own cell. They talked everything from music to movies to old high-school lives. Both the boys desperately wanted to keep Zoe's mind off of her dying brother.

Carol disappeared one day with Rick, and he questioned his uncle when he had returned without her.

"She killed Karen. I had to." Rick confesses, distraught by the decision he had to make.

It took Ross by surprise— he hadn't expected Carol to be capable of something like that. But he had to keep moving; if he was meant to see her again, he would. She could definitely survive on her own.

Three days later, Alfie was dead.

Ross held Zoe when Maggie broke the news, and the screams torn from her chest will never be gone from his ears. He couldn't imagine the feeling; what would he do if it was Carl who was dead?

Daryl took a group to grab medicine, and Ross fought tooth and nail to get to go with no success. The older man shot him some bullshit about "holding everyone together". That was nowhere near Ross' pay-grade.

Time began to squish together and skew. People were dying and killing each other in a place he considered home and he didn't know how to deal with it other than putting himself to work and trying his best not to revert to old habits— old habits that, in the old world, only ever brought him hardships and hospitals.

One night, far past when anyone should be awake, Ross sat on the edge of the staircase in a ghost-town cell block. it was almost completely empty, people either infected or dead or out on a run. His head hung in his hands as he listened to Zoe toss and turn and sob, knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to help. His breaking point was crawling only closer and closer, because God, what else is there to do in Ross' world but break?

Footsteps crept down the stairs behind him, stirring him from his place of solace. A small apology tumbled from his lips as he shoved his own body aside to make room for whoever was coming. To his shock, the person stopped and sat next to him— a familiar blond tuft of hair came into his peripheral. Bowie.