SILVER BULLET ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ iii

He has made it far beyond familiar places. Slowly but surely, Arthur loses track of his surroundings. The only thing he remains fully aware of is the throbbing in his leg, and that he doesn't have the slightest clue where his is. It can't be much longer until he turns.

He's surrounded by abandoned buildings and farmhouses, some cars scattered here and there. Whatever he's passing through used to be a rural town of sorts, which reminds him of where he grew up. It would be fitting to die in such a place, though also somehow ironic in a way he can't explain.

Arthur stops in his tracks when he hears distant screams and dull thumps. Sounds like some Infected, but what caused them to stir? Unless there is another uninfected human in close proximity, they're passive, so there must be someone nearby, aside from himself.

Has he been followed? Is it the military? No, they wouldn't be caught dead so far from a quarantine zone. The Resistance? Maybe, but what could they want in a place like this?

Surely not some country idyll, that's for sure.

Whomever the person may be, Arthur's decision is made within seconds. If he can help, he'll gladly do so. And if he dies overwhelmed by a group of Infected, there's nothing to lose. He'll be dead soon as it is. Might as well put a quicker end to his miserable life.

He checks his backpack for bullets. Two for the shotgun, five for the hunting rifle, fifteen for the 9MM pistol he usually refrains from using, simply because it's like a spoiled, angered lap dog — all noise and no damage. Should be enough, if his baseball bat, damn the stupid thing, won't break in the worst moment possible.

Arthur listens more closely, following the source of the sound. He sneaks between the abandoned buildings, taking down a zombie or two on his way, and ends up in front of an abandoned diner. The noises are much louder now, and they're a confusing mix of the signature moans of Infected, shouted swearwords and gunshots. Another person it is. And it doesn't sound like they're having too much of a blast.

Well then.

Arthur props his shoulder against the locked door of the diner, then gives it a hearty push. It breaks down without any hassle at all.

The interior of the diner smells old and musky, and of rotting meat. Arthur can't exactly be bothered with scents when he's getting jumped by at least three Infected simultaneously.

He's never loved his shotgun quite as much. It doesn't take Arthur more than two well-placed shots and a good few punches for the last zombie to take them down.

"Behind you!" A female voice warns.

He flips around as instructed, and is met face to face with a wildly screeching Infected. The creature flails its arms as it attacks.

Arthur places the first punch, which sends the zombie tumbling backwards a few centimeters. It's back on its feet before Arthur can think of what to do next, and it throws itself upon him, screeching aggressively.

He tumbles to the ground, kicking the creature in an attempt to get it off of him, but to no avail. The zombie has a death grip on his shoulders, and wants nothing more than to bite a chunk out of his neck.

What a heroic, exquisite way of dying.

A gunshot follows. The Infected's body slumps down on top of him, blood drips on his cheek.

Arthur relaxes when he realizes every noise has died out.

He leans his head back against the wooden floor, looks at his surroundings. Dead bodies everywhere, and on some stairs, behind a barricade made out of a closet and chairs, a young woman clutching a shotgun. She's not from the military, that's for sure, judging by the old T-shirt she's wearing. He sees no Rebel tattoo neck either, so that option's out of the way too. Maybe she's a Hunter, those maniacs that hunt down and eat humans. Best case scenario, she's another survivor, but optimism is a foreign concept to him.

"Do you punch zombies for fun or do you have a goddamn death wish?" The person from a few seconds prior shouts, tone practically dripping with stress and surprise.

"Maybe it's both, what business is it o' yours?" Arthur answers before kicking away the dead Infected on top of him. He stands up languidly, listens to the way the old floor creaks both under his weight, and that of the young woman, who has chosen to leave her barricade behind.

Arthur finds her pointing her rifle at him when he looks up. He sighs, raises his palms in surrender.

"Alright, simmer down, I got better things to do than kill ya."

"Don't worry, if either of us is dying, that's you, chum."

Well, she's not wrong.

The woman presses the nuzzle of her rifle against his collarbone to accentuate her point. "Drop your backpack on the floor, kick it over."

Arthur sighs, but does as she says. Why he still treasures his life enough to follow her instructions is beyond him.

"Good, now those two pistols." She puts her hand in his reach, still holds the rifle pointed at him with the other. "No funny business, because I can and will shoot you."

Arthur removes the two weapons from his belt, hands them over as well. She tosses one of them to a far corner of the room, keeps the other pointed at him, and straps her rifle to her back. Pistol still aimed at him, she moves towards his backpack, opening it to peek inside. Disappointment and anger is written on her face.

"Why does nobody have food on 'em nowadays?"

"I heard squirrels are a real delicacy. Give 'em a try sometime."

"Who do you belong to?" She ignores his joke expertly, still holding him at gunpoint. Talk about a charming, engaging personality.

"I ain't a dog, lady. Don't belong to no-one." Arthur responds sarcastically. He realizes he might as well have fun in the few hours in which he's still a human. If he dies by getting on some woman's nerves, he'll take it. It's by far less gruesome than witnessing a zombie rip his carotid artery out of his neck.

"Well, unless you're one of those fucking cannibals, who cares."

By exclusion, she must be a survivor, too. A pleasant surprise.

"Got good news for you, then. I ain't."

She relaxes, albeit only in the slightest. "What's your name?"

"Arthur."