BECAUSE OF YOU.
❝There are a lot of things
that should have killed me.
At least hurt me a little,
but they didn't.❞
THE WALKING DEAD.
BOOK ONE of the HUNT TRILOGY.
[ SEASON 2 - ? ]
*****
Disclaimer;
I do not own any of the characters or plot line...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
[ ii. what friends are for ]
october 9th, 2010
➸➸➸
"GLENN! WHERE THE HELL are you?!"
With his heart pounding a mile a minute in his chest, Greyson Hunt was hunched over in a crouch, shuffling close to the ground as he desperately looked for his best friend. Even as he pushed deeper and deeper into the traffic snarl, Greyson could still very easily hear the giant pack of walkers making their way close behind. He chose not to look back for two reasons: one, he feared discovery, and two, he just did not want to. If Greyson did could not see the walkers, the walkers could not see him.
Obviously, it did not always work like that, but imagining that it did made him feel a lot better.
In the aftermath of the walker discovery, Dale had sought refuge at the top of the RV and Rick had split off in one direction whilst Greyson had taken off in another. It was very clear that the group was not going to be able to outrun the pack, so they had to hide. And they had to hide, fast.
Rounding an abandoned, rusted car, Greyson sighed in relief at the sight of Glenn Rhee absentmindedly trying to remove a radiator hose from beneath the hood of a water truck. A little bit further down the road, also absentmindedly rummaging through a small bag, was Shane Walsh. Both of them were completely and absolutely oblivious to the danger lurking only a few yards behind them.
"Glenn! Shane!" Greyson hissed, waving his hand wildly to get their attentions. "Get under the cars, now!"
Shane looked up, annoyance flashing briefly on his face, before he actually noticed how hard Greyson was currently breathing. Rising up from his knees, he opened his mouth to speak but after a single glance over Greyson's shoulder, he was hurriedly dropping back to the cement and disappearing under a nearby car.
Elsewhere Glenn—who was still furiously trying to pull the hose free—let out a small yelp as Greyson harshly collided with his friend and determinedly pulled him away from the hood. Throwing him to the ground, Greyson frantically began pushing Glenn into the space under the water truck and once he was secure, then quickly went in after him.
Turning on his side, Greyson laid his rifle flat against his heaving chest as his sweaty back pressed against Glenn's. "What's happening?" The Korean demanded shakily.
"Be quiet," Greyson hissed.
Greyson pressed his lips together in a firm line, hoping to silence his own breathing, and watched with burning sweat in his eyes as the wave of walkers began to pass by them. Greyson was trembling where he laid, terrified that this could be it. The walkers could find them, could smell them, could kill them. And that would be that. Greyson could not even scream, but oh, how he dearly wanted to. He was barely a man and he was not ready to die. He did not want to die being torn apart alongside his best friend, both of them trapped beneath an abandoned water truck.
