Red Tide² ━ FTWD

CHAPTER 17: Delaying the Inevitable

RED TIDE

chapter seventeen: delaying the inevitable

[ season 2, episode 5; captive ]

DAY 21

In the wheelhouse, Heather watched over their captain as he slowly recovered, fingers running over the fresh bandage on her palm. While the clip from her good-luck charm was able to wear down the rubber, it couldn't make a dent on the fine metal wire on the inside. As such, when she forced her hands out, it had dug into that same cut from the first night in LA, leaving a flap of skin hanging off her palm, and a fresh river of blood running down her palm. She'd cleaned it up while they were tying up Reed and helping Strand recover, but she could tell already the damage had been done, and she was now back to square one in the healing process.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, while Madison remained at the helm, steely eyes scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the docks. Holly had remained curled up beside Strand on the bench, halfway across his chest and by his side.

If Mum were here, Heather thought, she would've said that it was because she knew Strand needed to warm up, being as he was hypothermic when they found him. Holly was always a smart dog like that, and more loving than they deserved. Meghan would have likely joked back that Holly was just taking the opportunity to sit on the furniture while he was weak and couldn't fight it — the dog's smarts often extended to opportunism, too.

Surprisingly, though, Strand hadn't complained once. Heather had even caught him petting the lab out of the corner of her eye in-between his short bursts of sleep. She guessed saving someone's life had a way of changing people's hearts.

Still, even though Strand was stable, Heather didn't intend on going anywhere anytime soon. Someone needed to watch over him, and if she was being honest with herself, the thought of seeing Reed's face again made her blood curdle.

The last she'd seen of the man, Daniel was wrangling him down the stairs, one hand pressed against a gushing wound. The wound she caused.

Heather had used knives before, even cut into flesh with them. She'd helped Lewis skin and prepare plenty of game for consumption, and had killed more than her fair share. Hell, she'd driven an axe blade through a dead woman's head only a couple days ago. But she'd never cut into someone living. She'd never killed anything with a name.

But she'd wanted to. When she drove that screwdriver into his back, she didn't care about the consequences. She wanted blood.

Killing in self-defense was one thing. Killing for the sake of it was something else. If Reed died, that would make her a murderer.

Beneath her feet, she could almost imagine his demise. Breath becoming shallow as stomach acid leached into his bloodstream. A slow decline into sepsis, then death would follow. He'd return, milky-eyed and bloodthirsty. He'd be dead, and it would be her fault.