calamity → the walking dead ¹

[ 012 ] buried steel.

CALAMITY.

chapter twelve, buried steel.
[ season two, episode three ]

PLEASE GOD, LET MY SISTER LIVE. The prayer repeats in Shane Walsh's mind like a frantic heartbeat as he sprints through the tall golden grass behind Rick. Twenty yards ahead, Rick's figure blurs through waves of heat rising from the ground, his best friend's body hunched forward with the precious cargo of his young son.

Shane's arms ache with the weight of his sister. Aiden's limp body bounces against his chest with each stride, her skin unnaturally pale against the shocking crimson that soaks her torn shirt. Blood, so much blood, covers his hands, making his grip slippery and treacherous. Her dark hair sticks to her forehead with sweat, and her breathing comes in shallow, irregular gasps that terrify him to his core. His baby sister. The one he swore to his mother he'd always protect.

"Stay with me, Aiden," Shane whispers through gritted teeth, his voice breaking. "Just stay with me."

The hunting accident replays in his mind with horrific clarity, the unexpected crack of the rifle, the sickening thud as both Carl and Aiden dropped to the forest floor, the panicked shouting. The heavyset man with the rifle, Otis, had been stammering apologies, eyes wide with horror at what he'd done.

"There's a farm!" Otis had yelled, pointing frantically across the field. "Half mile that way! White farmhouse! Ask for Hershel! He's a doctor— he can help them!"

The summer sun beats down mercilessly on Shane's neck as sweat streams down his face, stinging his eyes. His police training kicks in, control your breathing, maintain your pace, focus on the objective. But this isn't a perp he's chasing. This is his sister bleeding out in his arms.

When the white farmhouse finally emerges through the haze of heat and panic, rising like a mirage against the cloudless blue sky, Shane swears he finds another gear. His muscles scream in protest as he pushes himself harder, faster. Ahead, Rick reaches the wooden porch first, his boots thundering up the steps, his voice cracking as he shouts for help.

Shane is only seconds behind, taking the porch steps two at a time, his sister's blood leaving crimson splatters on the weathered wood. The screen door bangs open as a gray-haired man emerges, his expression shifting from annoyance to alarm in an instant.

"Are they bit?" The old man demands immediately, his piercing blue eyes scanning both injured people with clinical precision. A small cluster of people, clearly his family, gather behind him, faces etched with shock.

"Shot," Rick gasps, chest heaving, tears mixing with sweat on his face. "By your man."

"Otis?" A older blonde woman steps forward, hand flying to her mouth, her voice trembling with disbelief.

"He said find Hershel," Rick continues, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. His son's blood has soaked through his sheriff's uniform, turning the khaki a dark rust color. "Is that you? Help me. Help my boy."

"Help my sister," Shane adds, his voice breaking as he shifts Aiden's limp form in his arms. Her head lolls against his shoulder, and fresh blood seeps between his fingers where he presses against her wound. "Please." The word comes out as a ragged plea, stripped of all pride. Shane's eyes burn with unshed tears, his normally confident demeanor shattered by fear.

Hershel's expression shifts, years of medical training taking over. "Get them inside," he orders, his voice strong and authoritative, cutting through the chaos of the moment.

A tall, lanky young man with short dark hair immediately steps forward, motioning urgently. "This way, quick." He leads Rick and Shane through the front door and into the coolness of the farmhouse. The interior smells of fresh bread and furniture polish, the normalcy of it surreal against their blood-soaked nightmare.