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EXHAUSTION WAS SUCH a prominent part of Freya's psyche that when she slept too much, she found herself lost in a haze. Sleep deprivation kept her on her toes, it kept her eyes wide and her ears vigilant, really there was only one drawback that bothered her - the impossibly dark rings beneath her eyes, resembling freshly bloomed bruises.
Of course, it wasn't healthy - but what was? Was it truly better for her to spend time watching her family die ad infinitum than to just. . . be awake? She didn't think so.
The reluctant group of eight (nine, if Daryl's dog counted) traipsed through the forest in silence. Opposing opinions had been well established before the sun rose, so to snuff out the animosity, there was simply no speaking at all. They communicated with their eyes and hands only when absolutely necessary.
It wasn't uncommon for Freya and Daryl, sometimes if it was her shift when he brought Enzo, she'd catch his eye from atop the guard's post. He'd blink up at her, occasionally offer a wave and she'd just look away. Tragic as it was, he'd brought it upon himself. She couldn't find it within herself to feel guilty for him.
Chase was another person she hadn't seen in a long time. Another person that, honestly, she wouldn't mind delivering a swift punch to, but Trudi made her swear to stay out of it and she was going to honour that promise because there was enough treachery going around already without her adding to the mix.
The weather seemed to be reflecting life as of late - unpredictable and vexatious. During the night, the nip in the air had Freya's eyes watering and now the molten rays of sun beating down upon her had her entire body itchy. Especially her maimed arm, sweat was trickling down into the prosthetic, causing the metal to rub against the scar tissue that coated the short remnant of her right wrist.
"Through here," Daryl said in a barely audible grunt. The fabric of Enzo's jacket was bunched between his fingers, held tightly in a balled fist. He hadn't let go of the boy since their reunion.
Freya understood. She hadn't been at all willing to have Brodie and Judith anywhere that she wasn't for almost a year after Jocelyn, although the need for that fear had since dissipated, it still festered up every so often, and on those days she'd keep them at arm's length despite their dramatic protesting.
The here that Daryl was referring to was a clearing between two overgrown oak trees, it led out to a rundown street - something Freya hadn't seen in over eight years. The road was littered with deep fissures in the tarmac surface, abandoned vehicles and, of course; blood.
There was always blood.
When the world fell, a crimson tsunami cruised over every inch of the globe, leaving no crevice unscathed from the mark of the dead.
It was handprints this time. Small ones with a faint trail of fingers leading away from them - a child had been dragged to its death.
Freya came to a halt in front of them. She placed her palm against her stomach, on top of the fabric that covered her c-section scar.
