The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah...
"Stay to the water, John. Safer in the water. You never know, you know, you never know what'll come popping out when you're in the trees. When I give the word you go under. Anytime you hear anything, anytime you see the fires, you go under. Remember what I told you. What I told you, remember? Remember what I..."
You've been talking to John for three weeks straight, stopping only to make him rest for the night. ("Stay at the tops, in the branches, they can't get up there, their arms'll fall off, heh. I'll stand watch. Sit watch. Sitting's more comfortable, for a man of my age. Nngh, I'm too old to be fighting zombies.") It's been three weeks since you'd killed your only son, a mass of bloody, pulpy flesh, rotten at the edges, his beautiful baby blues eaten out by the disease.
The sloshing stops. One thing about wading through swamp water: you can't exactly take a rest. It's been decades since the coasts went, years since the decay of the land began its raid in people's veins. It really was true, that cliche line in every environmentalist movie. Our fate is tied to the Earth's. Well, the Earth started rotting long ago, then the people started, and it seems like it's been just that long since you sat down proper. Standing's the only resting now. Blinking's the only sleeping, 'less you count those few hours in the night when the irresponsible father dozes off during his guard shift.
An arm. Lying underneath that fallen tree. Oh God, oh God, looks like it's severed. What poor devil... no. No, wait, it's a whole darn person, half-floating in the water. Slosh, slosh, slosh. He's face-up, and breathing, arms spread wide, blood... Well. That pale face is going to get paler if you don't do something. And it's been a while since you've done... anything. Anything that would be a risk. But looking at that face... looks like it's time to take some risks.
Building a fire comes as naturally as walking. It's his arm that's bleeding, and it's not too hard to get clean and wrapped up. Always keep the first aid around, in case John gets hurt. He moans through cracked lips, but swallows clean water willingly enough. It's hard enough to get water... sure hope it's worth it.
Two day's time: the young man stirs to life. "Who... you?" he manages to get out, after you force him to drink water more slowly, not in gulps, it'll still be here in a while. "Name's Egbert. And you're Nearly Dead."
"Actually... 's Strider."
"Strider...? Dave-"
Strider yelps painfully. "Shut it old man. You don't know what you're touching there."
"Well, you're talkin' better, anyhow."
"Hmph."
Three week's time: Up and walking and has joined you indefinitely. Egbert still talks to John. Strider doesn't talk at all. That white face is stone-dead, even though he saved him... well, not completely, apparently. His hook nose is almost always turned sideways to you, and you've never seen his eyes beneath the sunglasses.
One month's time: "Who the hell you think you're talking to, old man?"
"Told you. Name's Egbert. And if you don't think a father should comfort his own son in these troubling times, well."
"...Crazy man."
Four month's time: You've fallen into a predictable pattern. Walk, eat, guard, sleep.
Five month's time: "I just wanna say... thank you."
"For what, son?"
"You saved me. And I never said anything."
"You still don't say much of anything."
"I know. If there's anything I can do... about... John?"
Your shoulders slump. For the first time, you have to admit... John's gone. And... "Something's wrong with me."
Strider kneels beside you. "I know, man. Me too." He grabs your chin, tilts up your hat... takes off his sunglasses. "Been a long time coming." Then he kisses you. And, you kiss back.
The ants go marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah...
FILL: TEAM ERIDAN<>ROSE
"Stay to the water, John. Safer in the water. You never know, you know, you never know what'll come popping out when you're in the trees. When I give the word you go under. Anytime you hear anything, anytime you see the fires, you go under. Remember what I told you. What I told you, remember? Remember what I..."
You've been talking to John for three weeks straight, stopping only to make him rest for the night. ("Stay at the tops, in the branches, they can't get up there, their arms'll fall off, heh. I'll stand watch. Sit watch. Sitting's more comfortable, for a man of my age. Nngh, I'm too old to be fighting zombies.") It's been three weeks since you'd killed your only son, a mass of bloody, pulpy flesh, rotten at the edges, his beautiful baby blues eaten out by the disease.
The sloshing stops. One thing about wading through swamp water: you can't exactly take a rest. It's been decades since the coasts went, years since the decay of the land began its raid in people's veins. It really was true, that cliche line in every environmentalist movie. Our fate is tied to the Earth's. Well, the Earth started rotting long ago, then the people started, and it seems like it's been just that long since you sat down proper. Standing's the only resting now. Blinking's the only sleeping, 'less you count those few hours in the night when the irresponsible father dozes off during his guard shift.
An arm. Lying underneath that fallen tree. Oh God, oh God, looks like it's severed. What poor devil... no. No, wait, it's a whole darn person, half-floating in the water. Slosh, slosh, slosh. He's face-up, and breathing, arms spread wide, blood... Well. That pale face is going to get paler if you don't do something. And it's been a while since you've done... anything. Anything that would be a risk. But looking at that face... looks like it's time to take some risks.
Building a fire comes as naturally as walking. It's his arm that's bleeding, and it's not too hard to get clean and wrapped up. Always keep the first aid around, in case John gets hurt. He moans through cracked lips, but swallows clean water willingly enough. It's hard enough to get water... sure hope it's worth it.
Two day's time: the young man stirs to life. "Who... you?" he manages to get out, after you force him to drink water more slowly, not in gulps, it'll still be here in a while. "Name's Egbert. And you're Nearly Dead."
"Actually... 's Strider."
"Strider...? Dave-"
Strider yelps painfully. "Shut it old man. You don't know what you're touching there."
"Well, you're talkin' better, anyhow."
"Hmph."
Three week's time: Up and walking and has joined you indefinitely. Egbert still talks to John. Strider doesn't talk at all. That white face is stone-dead, even though he saved him... well, not completely, apparently. His hook nose is almost always turned sideways to you, and you've never seen his eyes beneath the sunglasses.
One month's time: "Who the hell you think you're talking to, old man?"
"Told you. Name's Egbert. And if you don't think a father should comfort his own son in these troubling times, well."
"...Crazy man."
Four month's time: You've fallen into a predictable pattern. Walk, eat, guard, sleep.
Five month's time: "I just wanna say... thank you."
"For what, son?"
"You saved me. And I never said anything."
"You still don't say much of anything."
"I know. If there's anything I can do... about... John?"
Your shoulders slump. For the first time, you have to admit... John's gone. And... "Something's wrong with me."
Strider kneels beside you. "I know, man. Me too." He grabs your chin, tilts up your hat... takes off his sunglasses. "Been a long time coming." Then he kisses you. And, you kiss back.
The ants go marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah...