Chapter Text
Negan stood, unmoving, in the dilapidated hospital room. It had long since lost its sterile whiteness, smell of carbolic acid, and incessant beeping from machines that seemed to keep his wife from withering away.
Now, it was dark, even as the light shined in through the blinds. Looking outside from where Negan stood, the window framed the fallen city like an old renaissance painting. Decimated cars, piles of dead bodies and animal carcasses towered over by rusted buildings covered the city that used to be Atlanta. Now, it was nothing but a graveyard for the roaming dead.
The hospital room Negan stood in was painted with coagulated blood, splatters of rotten brains and vomit he wasn’t wholly proud of. The sheets were covered in the myriad of filth. The walls were stained just as badly as the floor. And Lucille..?
She was like a ghost of herself. Worse than that. Remnants, broken down from weeks of festering decay.
Negan had spent those weeks outside, thinking he could forget how he’d left his wife. How he’d abandoned her when her heart stopped beating and her breathing shallowed out to nothing. How he’d felt the cold shiver of fear run through him when her fingers twitched back to life and her eyes opened up, revealing eerie, glossed over irises; nothing like the chocolate brown ones he’d loved so much. How he’d bolted from the room when she snarled and snapped her jaw in an attempt to dig her teeth into his flesh.
He thought that letting her roam the confines of her hospital room, where she’d initially faded, would be better than driving an ax through her skull. He was wrong.
After he’d left, the guilt ate at him constantly. No amount of steam he blew off from killing the other dead ones could take away from the idea of Lucille—a growling, gurgling mess—left forgotten in this room for God only knows how long it would’ve been. Maybe forever. Maybe until she was nothing but dust. Or maybe, some jackass would pry open the door he’d securely locked, out of sheer curiosity, only to be greeted with her teeth sunk deep into their neck. Guilt, shame, anger... it all chewed at Negan’s insides until there was nothing left to nibble at, other than his growing resolve to do what he should have done the day he saw her face fall slack.
He’d came and made a mess of the whole thing, but he’d done it. He did right by his wife, something he’d struggled with long before the world went to shit.
And now he stood there wiping the bile from his lips, having puked violently after he’d done the deed and couldn’t stomach the horrible picture he’d painted with Lucille’s guts.
Negan was ready to move on. To take on this fucked up world.
He nodded to himself, as if affirming his own thoughts, before he pushed his way out of the room that smelled of molten flesh and death.
He dropped the ax he’d used to do in his wife, hating the feel of it in his hand after what he’d done. He didn’t need it, after all. He’d left behind his real prized weapon back at his temporary hideout, not wanting to use the bat on Lucille, of all people. But until he got back, he was stuck using his pistol for protection. He pulled it from his belt and readied it at his side as he walked steadily through the hallway.
He hadn’t been to this hospital since he’d cowered away weeks ago, and though his way up had been relatively clear of the dead ones, he could never be too sure of what would pop up on his way back. His tussle with his undead wife might’ve alerted some ghoulies to his location. And even though he felt some form of resolve after taking care of Lucille, he wasn’t quite ready to die.
“I don’t know what to do, Lucy. They killed everyone…or tried to at least. The ones left got fucking eaten up by those freak-show monsters out there,” Negan was saying, voice wavering but not quite thick with tears. He never cried around Lucille, not a single tear. Even when she was diagnosed he’d been strong, because that’s what she needed. He may not have been the faithful husband she wanted, but he’d never given up on her. Because, the moment he gave into those overwhelming emotions, she would too. He wanted her last moments to be strong, not wrung out with tears over the inevitable.
Thankfully, the hospital had gone quiet. Most of the dead had moved on from the hallways, and anyone left alive had hauled ass away from there (if they were smart).
Outside was a different story. Bombs filled the area the night before, and Negan had stayed regardless of the possibility that any moment could be their last. Hell, he would’ve preferred dying together with the love of his life, rather than the alternative.
But there were still screams; people who had been spared by the explosive mayhem running from those who rose from the dead. It was a mess of chaos, but it didn’t take away from the moment. This last moment, as Negan held firm to Lucille’s frail hand and listened to the last few sentences she had the strength to say.
“Baby... you’re gonna survive,” she’d said. “I might be dying, but you’re not dead yet. Not even close. Go on, honey. Give em’ hell. Show those fuckers who’s boss.”
Negan snapped out of his reverie the moment a door to his right rattled violently. It was blocked with a large hospital bed. With how slow the door was being pulled open; Negan wasn’t too sure what would come at him. His best guest was the dead. Who the hell was dumb enough to hole up in a hospital room? This particular hospital was the furthest thing from safe.
Not to mention, he’d passed this door on the way from Lucille’s room the time he’d left directly after her passing weeks ago. He had a good enough memory to know that that hospital bed had been there then as well. Also, he’d knocked up against it that day, and remembered the pain his hip had given him as he fought his way out because of it.
Negan tampered his thoughts and focused on aiming at his target. He calmed his breathing and held the pistol at eye level, waiting for whatever evil lurking behind the door to reveal itself.
And when it did, Negan’s eyes widened. He fired with just enough time before pulling the trigger to move his gun three inches to the right.
The bullet struck the wall beside the door instead, as a man in a hospital gown and boxers shrieked and collapsed back into the room.
“Ah, shit,” Negan cursed as he rushed to pull the hospital bed away from the door.
That fucking gunshot was a waste, and it was loud. Bad fucking idea.
Negan roughly pushed through the door and into the room where the gowned man was damn near twitching on the linoleum floor. He looked pale—sickly pale—and shaken to the core. He was covered in a cold sweat, had bloodshed eyes and appeared as though he wasn’t quite sure how to work his legs.
Negan was too confused about too many things to dive into each one, so he focused on his gut response to the man’s presence.
“Who the fuck are you?” Negan whispered harshly, ears thrumming with anxiety over the amount of noise he’d made over some freaky looking dude in a hospital gown.
“I— I... where’s... Lori? Who are..?” He managed to fight the words out of his throat, as if speaking was more tasking than climbing a steep mountain.
That voice, laced with a country accent that must’ve been from a town way further south than from a city like Atlanta, was rough and unused. Dry, like hard sandpaper. Negan closed the door, not liking it open with his back turned, secured his gun in his belt and quickly kneeled down to offer up some of his water. The guy was for sure dehydrated, among many things.
The man grabbed his canister with shaky hands, violently rattling it until the mouth of it was firmly wrapped in the man’s starving lips.
Negan was almost lost in his fascination at the way the man guzzled the liquid. Dehydrated may have been an understatement.
When it was handed back, it was empty, and Negan tried to hide his irritation in favor of figuring out whether to ditch this stranger or not. Safety in numbers and all, but what the hell could this crippled looking invalid do to help, anyway?
“My wife...” the man said, more clearly this time. He looked like he was ready to get up, so Negan spared him some of the trouble by helping him onto the bed. Sitting, and looking more alive, the man said, “I need to get home to my wife and Carl, I... I don’t know what’s going on. Where are the nurses? Why did you... shoot at me?” He was running out of breath by the end of his questioning, and Negan suddenly felt the unmistakable pull of dread for what he could only imagine this guy was saying.
“You don’t know?” Negan asked instead of answering.
“Know what?” The man asked, still a little breathless.
Negan looked over to the window, noting that the blinds were shut, and maybe in this man’s delirium he hadn’t thought to open them. He walked over to it, sparing the wilted flowers on the side table a glance on his way, then grabbed hold of the string dangling by the window.
Negan sighed, “Buddy, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the world has turned itself up on its dick.” He pulled up the blinds with a sharp tug of the string, revealing the desolate landscape of the bombed city.
The man shielded his eyes from the heavy brightness of the sun as he struggled his way up from the bed.
He padded over with his bare feet, slowly moving his hand as the brightness became less harsh on his irises. And when his hand had been fully removed, falling slack to his side, Negan could see the absolute horror take over the man’s features.
“Wha—?” he couldn’t finish the word. It was pushed out from his chest with a heavy breath. His eyes were blown wide, all diamond blue and rimmed red. Tears were already brimming at his eyelids, as if unimaginably horrible things were flooding his mind over what he was seeing.
“Look...” Negan said through another sigh, heavier this time and thick with sentiment. “I don’t know how the fuck you ended up here, but if this is the first time you’re seeing this... there’s a lot of shit you should know.”
“M-my wife... my... Carl. I have to... I...I...” the man was babbling. Tears were coming now, peeling from his eyes as he stuttered and fumbled over whatever he was trying to say.
Negan felt irritation bubble up. It wasn’t that he didn’t get it. This was a lot to take in. Negan had seen it first hand. Hell, everyone must’ve had this moment of utter shock and fear. But Negan was already wary of how he would make it out of this building alive, and this man needed to deal with his existential crisis sooner rather than later if he didn’t want to get left in this damn room to fend off the dead on his own.
“First of all,” Negan began, and the man snapped his tear streaked face towards him so fast, it was like he’d forgotten Negan was there. “What’s your name and what the hell were you doing here practically fucking naked?”
The man must’ve just registered his state of undress. He regarded it with a quick glance downward, then back up at Negan with a shaky shrug. “I-I don’t know. I don’t remember. The last thing... the last thing I remember is getting a call and... the dispatcher.” The man closed his eyes, recalling the memory. “It was two men. We blocked the road. I don’t... I— the car flipped, and I was shot... someone... shot my vest... and...”
“Whoa, hold the fuck on, cowboy,” Negan placed his hands on the man’s shoulders, halting his jumbled story and forcing him to open up those blue eyes again. The man let out a steady breath through his nose, obviously fighting down some well-earned anxiety. “First, why don’t you start off with your name?”
“Right, sorry,” the man nodded, looking tiredly apologetic. “Rick. Rick Grimes.”
“I’m Negan,” he offered with a smirk and let go of Rick’s shoulders now that he’d settled down a bit.
“Okay. Yeah, nice to meet you, Negan,” Rick said, wincing a bit at his own words.
“Nice to fucking meet you too, sweetheart. How about we save the pleasantries for later? Now, tell me,” Negan paused to wet his lips, then gestured to Rick with his hand. “Were you a cop?”
Rick nodded shakily, “I was. Deputy sheriff in King County.”
“King County? Where the fuck is that?” Negan said with a scrunched nose and a smile that was almost involuntary.
“It’s uh... south. We’re in Atlanta right?” Rick said, turning again to view the devastation below through the window. His eyes were wavering, but no more tears came out.
“Uh... yeah. What the hell happened to you? And no more of that bullshit you were babbling about earlier. Shoot straight with me,” Negan felt the need to implore, because whatever Rick was attempting to say the first time was more irritating than insightful.
Rick glared this time, having mustered enough energy to look normal while he did it, and not like the fucking crypt creeper. “I don’t know,” Rick answered, tone a bit hard now. It was as if he was just now catching onto Negan’s wise-ass attitude. “I was trying to say...” he let out another breath through his nose, and Negan wondered if that was a habit Rick often used to calm down. It seemed to work this go around. “We got a call. Bank robbery. Blocked the road. There was gunfire, I got hit. I remember that, I definitely got hit... here,” he pressed a hand to the left side of his chest, opposite to where the old gauze was wrapped around the right side. “And then I was talking to Shane. And then there was pain... a sharp pain in my back. It was everywhere.” He dropped his hand, and Negan tried not to think too hard in his overactive mind that he didn’t know who the hell Shane was.
Rick formed two claws with his hands and pressed them to his chest, then collapsed back to sit on the bed, the memory seeming to bring back the same sensation as the pain he was trying to describe.
“It was like my body was being ripped apart. All over, I felt it. I couldn’t breathe. All I could think about was the pain. And then...” he cleared his throat and dropped his hands to his lap. “And then I woke up here. I must have been in a coma. They probably... they probably transferred me here because the hospital in King County isn’t cut out for things like this. But that’s all I know. Well, and you, nearly putting a bullet in my head...”
Negan’s eyes were comically wide by the end of Rick’s telling. It was what he’d assumed but hearing it out loud felt unreal. How is it possible that this man had been unconscious this whole time? Nearly three weeks had passed since the power went out in this place. Judging by the machines and loose wires hanging from them, Negan guessed Rick was not only dehydrated, but malnourished and severely lacking in vitamin D.
“Ho-ly shit,” Negan said with an emphasizing thrust of his hips. “You’re telling me you’ve been out cold since before the start? God. I hope you have your shittin’ pants on, Rick.” Negan shook his head after that, chuckling darkly at the pure incredulity of Rick’s situation.
“The start? Start of what? World War three?” Rick asked, eyes wild with fear as he motioned toward the window.
“Oh, Rick,” Negan sucked his teeth and looked off, eyes serious now as the gravity of the world replaced the mocking playfulness he had just seconds ago. “You wanna know why I almost capped you on sight when I saw you opening that door?” Negan asked with a nod toward said door.
Rick didn’t say anything, but deftly nodded in response.
“Well,” Negan said through a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face and through the stubble of his beard. “The world isn’t what it was when you went down for your little nap, sweetheart. People die, but they’re not really dead. Fuckers get back up, crazy-eyed, all gnarly and fucking mangled up. And then, they come after you like you’re a full-course-meal.”
Rick’s eyes, if possible, seemed to grow wider and wider the more Negan spoke. “What are you saying?” he asked, tone serious and unbelieving.
“I’m saying, those undead shitheads are out there sniffing us regular folks out, looking for a hot meal. And us?” He paused to lick his lips. “We get bit, scratched—hell, we get stabbed to death, shot down, if fucking lung disease kills us... we’ll be one of them too,” there was more bite in his voice this time, but Rick didn’t seem to hear it... or care. He was busy turning over Negan’s words in his own head.
“You’re saying... that people—dead people—are walking around out there trying to eat us?” Rick’s eyes peeled from the window to stare up at Negan. “And it’ll happen... no matter what?”
Negan, for his part, simply nodded. He leaned against the wall by the window and crossed his arms, hoping that Rick would understand the amount of shit that they were in quickly. This little chat was going on twenty minutes now, and they needed to get out of the city before dark. They’d only have a few hours if they didn’t want to get stuck in an impossible situation.
They?
Negan wasn’t sure when he’d subconsciously decided to let Rick tag along on his endless journey. Hell, maybe it was just until he could find the man’s family, alive or dead... or undead. Negan didn’t mind having an objective. Something told him he needed one. Otherwise, who knows where he would’ve wandered, or what he would’ve become with nothing to do but survive?
“I need to find my family,” Rick finally said after a long stretch of silence. It was the clearest thing Rick had said since Negan nearly blew his head off.
“Alright, well newsflash, darlin’, we aren’t gonna find them here. I’ve already wasted too much time talking to your sickly ass and now that you’ve caught your breath and aren’t babbling like a dumbass, I think we’re about ready to blow this death trap.”
Rick seemed to ignore the insults well enough, his temple only pulsing with his clenching teeth every time one dropped from Negan’s mouth. He didn’t rise to the bait, likely because Negan wasn’t exactly wrong, if a little crass. Rick instead asked what was gnawing at the back of his head triggered by the words ‘death trap.’
“Are they here? Those... things?” Rick said, voice a pitch higher in his fear.
“Hell yeah they are. Probably more than usual after I popped off that round. They haven’t come banging on your door yet, so maybe they weren’t able to pinpoint the location. But we gotta move soon, and quickly. You gonna be able to walk with those shaky ass legs of yours?” Negan sounded a little humored as he pointed at Rick’s pale legs, muscled, but thin with time spent in his deep sleep.
Rick rolled his eyes, “I’ll manage.”
“You sure? You looked like a damn puppet the way you crumbled to the floor like goddamn Pinocchio when I came in here,” Negan said with a raised brow.
Rick grit his teeth but didn’t deny that his legs felt weak and foreign. Like he was still getting used to them being on his body, feeling them, and moving them on his own.
Negan chuckled, his mouth forming into a sly grin while his tongue slid from one edge of his mouth to the other, trapped between his teeth like he was holding back a fit of laughter at Rick’s resilience to admit defeat. Hardheaded motherfucker.
“Alright, come on, Officer Grimes, let’s do this. I don’t have time to watch you fumbling around like a jackass,” Negan clapped his hands and rubbed them together while he searched the room with his eyes.
“What are you looking for?” Rick asked, watching Negan’s eyes curiously.
“Hold tight, buttercup,” Negan said halfheartedly, his mind focused on finding something that could keep Rick from slowing him down and inevitably getting him killed. When he didn’t find anything sufficient in the room, he walked over to the door, ignoring Rick’s incessant questioning as he went.
He pried it open as slowly as he could, peering through the crack to make sure there wasn’t some dead bastard waiting for its moment to pounce. Satisfied with his survey, Negan pushed the door open and raised his gun, fully tuning out Rick’s voice as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. As an afterthought, he pulled the bed back to where it had previously barricaded the door, then made his way down the hall to Lucille’s room.
God, he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to go back in there. He’d hoped he could let her go the way he’d let that ax go after bludgeoning her with it. But he knew what was in there, and it might just save the poor bastard’s life in the room three doors down. That was enough of an incentive to swallow the disturbing image of what used to be his wife splattered across the room.
He paused just before reaching the door, hearing the faint groaning of the undead closing in. Instinct took over. He whipped around and bashed the gun’s handle into the prick’s head, cratering its skull and causing its decaying body to go slack and drop to the floor.
Negan let out a calming breath, his nerves rattled from the close call. But, he wasn’t deterred. He walked the next four steps it took to get to Lucille’s door.
Somehow, as he crept it open, the smell was more pungent than it had been when he’d left. Negan coughed and covered his nose and mouth, stomach churning at the mixture of filth filling his senses. He focused his eyes on the prize.
Lucille’s wheelchair was folded and propped up against the wall by the bathroom. Luckily, it was mostly spared of the bloody mess Negan had made of the room. Only small streaks of her blood had made it onto the wheels.
He let out a few more coughs, still trying to get used to the stench, and stepped over the mess on the floor to get to the chair. He grabbed it quickly and hauled it out of the room with equal speed.
The moment he stepped through the door, he felt something grab onto his shoulder. He dropped the chair and held one hand out to grip the undead’s jacket. He spared it a once over, noting it was wearing a lab coat and blue scrubs.
“Poor bastard,” Negan said, then sent it flying back with a heavy kick to the gut.
He stepped forward quickly, pulled out his gun and shot it in the head before it could get back up.
He didn’t realize his mistake until it was too late. He eyed his gun for a second and hissed out a low, “Shit,” before holstering it and grabbing the wheelchair in a hurry.
Just as he approached Rick’s door, it opened, revealing big blue terrified eyes. “Negan? What happened? Is everything okay?” Rick asked, opening the door wider and leaning heavily against the frame. Jesus Christ, this guy can barely stand.
Negan pushed away the hospital bed blocking his way and stepped inside. He opened up the chair and plopped it on the floor, then gestured toward it as if it was a magic trick and said, “Hop on, sweetheart. We gotta boogie.”
Rick stammered out a nonsensical reply, unable to form actual sentences while Negan was grabbing him roughly and tugging him into the chair with little regard to his say-so.
“And to answer your question, shit is shittier than shit at the moment. Two of those dead freaks came at me while I was fetching your goddamn carriage and I’m sure more are coming after I shot off my gun like a dumbass.” He realized he probably shouldn’t have let go of that ax, but there was nothing in him willing to pick it back up now that it was covered in Lucille’s blood. Even if it meant his death.
Rick tensed but didn’t say anything as Negan roughly pushed him through the door and down the hall.
Negan noted that Rick didn’t have anything to say toward the dead bodies either as they swerved around them. He sucked in sharp breaths, his eyes grew wide, he covered his mouth in fear or disgust, but he didn’t say anything.
They made it to the stairs without incident. Negan pulled Rick towards the wall and pulled out his gun.
“Come on, stand up,” Negan said with an impatient wave of his hand.
Rick obeyed without question, likely still in shock over seeing what Negan had described with his own eyes.
“I’m assuming you still know how to use this?” Negan said, holding out his gun to Rick once he was fully standing and leaned against the wall for support.
Rick nodded but remained silent.
Negan nodded back, “Alright, cowboy. You see one of those freaks, you shoot that fucker right in the head. Not the body, just the head. That clip is half empty, and I will not stand for you wasting my goddamn bullets. Got it? Aim for the fucking head.”
Rick nodded, and Negan didn’t waste any more time. He grabbed the wheelchair and ran with it down the two flights of steps it took to get to the main floor. There was one undead asshole waiting for him at the bottom, and Negan used the wheelchair to hold it out of arm’s reach.
He struggled with it until his arms grew tired. He used as much strength as he could muster to shove the freak back. It fumbled mindlessly to catch its footing. Negan used that moment to grab the back of its head and slam it against a nearby wall once, twice, three times, until it ceased movement.
He huffed and grunted through his exertion, but only allowed himself a second to catch his breath before righting the wheelchair and setting it up. He turned and dashed up the stairs a moment later, finding Rick looking exhausted, but alert. Even with his slightly withered state, Negan could see the knowing look of a lawman in Rick’s eyes. Ready, steady and prepared to shoot to kill.
“Hey, come on. We gotta move,” Negan beckoned, and held out his arm. Rick didn’t seem to have the fight in him that he’d had back in the room. He quickly threw an arm around Negan’s shoulders and allowed him to half-carry him down the steps.
At the bottom, Rick was placed back in the chair, gun still held tight in a firm grip. He spoke for the first time since leaving the room as Negan pushed him toward the exit. “You want your gun back?” Rick asked.
Negan replied in a huff, “Nah, you keep it for now. It’s too much to steer your ass and shoot shit at the same time.”
Rick went silent again, the same petrified expression taking hold of him as they weaved around more bodies. Some of them were civilians, some were soldiers, some were doctors and nurses. All were torn to pieces or mutilated by an onslaught of bullets. Blood was on everything. Guts were like ornaments hanging from tables, chairs and littering the floor. Negan did not envy Rick in the slightest. At least being there while the world was going to shit made it easier to adjust, because you’re forced to act in the moment. Forced to come to terms and decide to fight back or surrender to this new world’s madness.
But for Rick, it was slow and fast all at the same time. The fear of hearing it from Negan’s lips was nothing in comparison to the visuals that only grew more brutal the closer they got to the hospital’s entrance.
Once the double doors were in sight, Negan abandoned Rick in a safe enough distance to work one of them open.
“There,” Rick said, loud enough for Negan to hear, but not so loud that it might draw more. He’s a quick learner; that’s good to know.
Negan glanced to Rick, sitting in the wheelchair frigid and pointing the pistol toward the nearest nurse’s station. One of the dead ones was stumbling toward Negan, and Rick had the barrel of the gun trained on it each step of the way. He seemed to be waiting for Negan’s cue, willing to follow his lead. “Don’t fire,” Negan said, “I got ‘em.”
He finished pulling the door open, grabbed a nearby body and used it as a stopper, then rushed over to take care of Dr. Dickhead who was missing an arm. Likely chewed or ripped off by the undead freak that killed him.
Negan scanned the floor and it only took a second to find a discarded pipe a few steps away. It had old blood on it. Someone probably took one out with it days ago. He grabbed it during his approach and brought it down with one hard swing to the cranium. Blood splashed from it onto his face and jacket. He used his sleeve to wipe it off before hurrying back to Rick.
“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of this shithole,” Negan said as he tucked the pipe into his belt for later, grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and pushed them through the exit.
“Where are we going?” Rick asked as they made it onto the streets. It was worse out there. Bodies lined up in bags, military vehicles looted and abandoned, portions of buildings black and grey from the bombs, and a resounding groan from not too far away. A herd. One Negan had been avoiding for some time since he’d reentered the city.
“A hideout I’ve been staying in for the past couple days. The hospital was worse off when I got back to Atlanta. Had to wait a while for those pricks to come out and join their buddies on the street,” Negan explained.
He turned Rick into an alleyway, avoiding the main roads. As they entered a crossing, where a separate alleyway opened up and revealed the main street, Negan stopped pushing for a moment to point down it, toward an unbelievably large cluster of the undead.
“That, sweetheart,” Negan whispered, leaning close to Rick’s ear, “is a fucking nuclear weapon. You run into one or two of those assholes? No problem. You get stuck in the middle of that shit? Your best bet is to put a bullet through your head. That thing will mow you down, chew you up and shit you out.” He continued his pushing after that, leaving Rick horrified as Negan steered him back to the hideout. And hell, Negan couldn’t let himself feel bad about Rick’s apparent terror. Rick needed to understand exactly what the dangers were. If they were going to be traveling together, Rick would need to wise up sooner, rather than later.