Re: TWD: graham + clem
Outside, under the shaking fucking sky that broiled putrid gray and promised Georgia rain, a series of whistling shots went off—fireworks spitting sparks somewhere not too far from the front door of that old-fashioned pharmacy that stood decaying on the corner of Main Street and Second. Pop, bang, once and fucking again. Then a bag, threadbare canvas sotted and spotted, came through the window Clementine opened for air. It was fucking heavy, and if it burst when it landed, that was just too the fuck bad.
It was food, dented cans, none yet bloated with taint of botulism. It was water—not much and brownish—in a hard-shelled canteen. It was fucking clean shirts, bald, bland, and bloodbless, and a pair of boots brand new out of the box, smallish, with wadded rags stuffed into rucksack pockets in case the fit wasn't right. There was no skitter of ammo.
The bag was followed by a the smacking wallop of a body against slatted wood—the rotted wall just beneath the open window.
This was fucking ridiculous.
Blood-blistered fingers on the white-splintered sill, limewash paint peeling from lack of care—no one in the fucking apocalypse paid much mind to shit like upkeep and trim windows—and Shane knocked his boots into wood, fucking kicking footholds into worm-eaten pulp and dragging himself the fuck up with a grunt and a painful fucking extension of muscles. His skin was gore-slick and he stank to high fucking heaven of rot, mulched guts and a reek of congealed blood boiled to syrup under sun. It was hard to tell if he was injured and the knife he held clamped between his teeth was as liable to fucking infect him, so stringy it was with viscera.
He'd jumped from the fucking building next door and it was hard enough to keep the breath in his body from the impact. The dead scuffled below, fucking drawn by the whizz-bang of firecrackers, but too by the force of a man hitting a wall so hard to shuddered.
Hanging there, Shane fucking tossed the crossbow he found, heavy shit that it was, into the room first. He didn't see Graham yet, and exhaustion and hunger made it fucking hard to press himself up after the initial exertion.
"Peaches, what the fuck—" It was a complaint issued around steel blade in a growl from mottled, smoke-scarred lungs, and if there was any fucking doubt before who it was, well, now they could be sure. "Christ!"