narrative: graham goes to zombies. Who: Graham Ross What: Narrative. Where: Hotel →TWD When: Todayish. Warnings/Rating: Nah.
Ever since the party, Graham felt like his head was some cement mixer that never shut off, everything going round and round, getting all jumbled up, making it real damn hard to cling to anything rational. And sure, he'd never been fully sane, but at least he'd felt like he understood the world. Now, he didn't understand a damn thing. Clem was pregnant with his kid and now she was gone. Him and Shane, they moved from place to place and nothing felt right. Nothing felt anything but temporary. It was driving him crazy, and he couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't take feeling stuck, like he had no idea what the hell he was doing but getting up every morning and going through the motions. Where was his purpose? Why the hell did he even bother waking up at all? He tried to remember the last time he'd felt like he had a reason to keep going, and the more he thought, the more he kept getting drawn back to one thing.
Zombies.
That damned door, with the walking dead and the Governor, where survival was purpose, was the last time he'd felt alive. And, too, it was the last place he'd felt close to Lore; ever since leaving, Graham felt like she'd been fading away more each day. He'd thought it was a good thing, but why? He wanted her back. He wasn't cut out for anybody else, for moving on. The ring that hadn't left his finger since she'd died was proof enough of that.
So, he decided to go back. Maybe he'd find part of himself in there, something he could bring back and use. Or maybe he'd just get lost in the midst of the undead. Either way, what mattered was that he felt real sure that he belonged in that door, at least just then. He was good at killing things. Real good at surviving, too. And if the Governor was still there, running his town... well, maybe it was about time somebody burned the place to the ground, and took that bastard down with it. Maybe that somebody was him.
Graham didn't tell anybody. He knew Shane wouldn't stop him, not if he explained it right, but he needed to do this alone; he'd let him know once he was in. He got a backpack ready with supplies, food and water, strapped his gun to his hip, slung a rifle over his shoulder, and tucked a machete into his jacket. He had some ammo, always figured he could find more. And, if all else failed, he'd learned he could be real good at killing with his bare hands too.
Finding the door wasn't hard, like it wanted to be found. Sure, getting out might be harder, but Graham wasn't worried. He could hear the groans of the dead through the wood, and he steeled himself for a second before turning the knob and stepping through.
The stench of rot and death hit him hard, but he didn't flinch. It was familiar, in a strange way, and Graham found himself in the middle of a road strewn with cars and bodies. Also familiar. To his right, a small group of zombies were coming up the grassy slope, but he felt no fear. No, instead his heart started to beat a little faster, and he felt the adrenaline begin to pump through his veins.
Hell, he felt alive.
Graham pulled out the machete, tested his grip, and started down the road.