Chapter Text
The first thing Thomas asks you is the same damn question he has constantly been asking you, "Do you see?"
You look at him, at the casual button up and trousers he wears. He looks like he just got off shift. Looks like the kind of guy who grabs an expensive vintage beer or some shit and calls it quality, like it makes a lick of difference. You suppose Jim would be disappointed in you for saying that. Drunk was always drunk to you, but you have a mission. So you nod, "I do."
Thomas smiles, this bright cheerful thing like he is not carrion in waiting. You smile back, make it soft and gentle. It is the smile you only gave your father, in hopes he thought you a target too small to damage permanently.
You hope that Thomas will think the same of you and it will be easier to slit his throat. You're not averse to ripping it out with your teeth.
He leads you through the plain walls of the hospital and you follow, unarmed. They were smart enough to take your weapons. It will take time to get the right opportunity. You will take as much of it as you need.
Troy's plan wasn't ready yet, you have days before he comes. Days to do what needs to be done, to make sure no one else dies for you. Days to avenge what you have already lost to this killer's schemes.
You can do this.
He leads you into an office and you follow like you are one of his flock. You will bend the knee, do whatever it takes to prove you are one of them.
Anything to kill him, to kill Nick.
But you keep that desire away from your features, buried deep inside you. Your body stays lax, expression approachable. A woman of subservience, you have practice.
Though Troy has buried that little girl, he pulled her out of you and beat her into the ground with endless love. He would never let you be that person again, that stranger that was never you in the first place.
She is not you, but she is here now.
Little Dixon, refusing to be called by your first name because you share it with your mother. Little Dixon whose father whispered that name in your ear.
Today, you are Raina.
Today you will be anyone he wants you to be, do anything that is required of you. And Troy, well, he promised to never judge you for anything you do to survive. You'll hold him to it.
"Please sit." Thomas says gesturing to one of the chairs in the room.
You do, crossing your ankles like a good girl. Normally you're more a spread the knees type of woman, but you bet on Raina being dainty. Weak.
He surveys you, tracing his eyes down your dirty clothing. "Did you have trouble getting here?"
"Some." You admit, your arrival to the hospital had been rushed and not what you'd ever refer to as graceful.
He nods, "So what was it?"
"I don't follow." You say carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing. You're stacking a deck of cards and they are precarious at best.
"What made you see? I will admit I was very surprised Troy survived. It should have killed him." He says it so casually like Troy's death wouldn't shake the very world to its foundation.
He is looking for a reaction, you don't give him one. Instead you swallow down the vitriol you want to spew and make conversation, "He did die, for a minute or two. We have a defibrillator on board."
Thomas makes a hum of interest and brings his hand up to rub his chin. "Lucky duck that one. So what it that? Or was it Merle, he was your eldest brother was he not?"
You need to swallow again. "He is, death doesn't change that."
"Right, of course, my condolences truly." He smiles, and holds out a hand for you. You're close enough to take it if you choose over the surface of the desk that separates you.
Oh, how you forgot who this little girl was. The kind that let killers hurt you. With no degree of small effort you place your hand in his, surprised at the smoothness. You are used to thick calluses and years of hard work.
Doctors apparently have soft hands, guarded by gloves from the blood they shed. Or at least that is the case for this one.
"Mel then, or was it Melrose, Mellith? I can't recall." It feels like he is smashing his foot into your toes.
And this time a flinch escapes before you can stop it. He could have died, he came so close. "Melvin." You whisper, "His name is Melvin Grant."
"Was, dear. His name was Melvin Grant." Thomas drawls and you see the monster there living inside him.
You know all about monsters.
"Yes." You say, and suddenly this doesn't feel so easy anymore. He thinks Mel is dead, you won't correct him. You'll play along, "Yes, it was Mel that did it."
Thomas nods, "What do you see, Raina?"
Here's the test, and all you can do is guess. Because what you see is that he needs to be buried six feet under. That is not what he wants you to see. So instead you do your best estimate and pray it's the right thing to say.
"There are some people in this world that are the predator and there are some that are the prey. You are either the butcher, or the cattle." You look at him, and remember what it was like to kill the last person you thought murdered your husband. "You are the butcher."
He leans forward, grip tightening on your hand. His eyes shine alight with interest, "Go on."
"I am not a sheep."
Before he can reply the door opens and you jerk around to look at it, but manage to leave your hand where it is. Nick stands in the doorway, looking at the two of you.
This is the first time you get a good look at him. He like all of you is a little older, he's got frown lines. His skin is pale, he's not healthy like you are.
He looks at you and you return it. "Hi, Nicky."
He shifts his head a little but doesn't remark. You forgot how hard it is to read him, like looking at a flat emotionless wall. He keeps it all buried inside, trapped in cages the drugs have built for him.
"You sound like Troy." He remarks, and you recall the way Nick always seemed interested in whatever Troy was doing. Fascinated. Once upon a time he wanted a seat at your table almost as terribly as he wanted his next fix.
It was you who kept him out, while his sister was invited in. Madison snuck by at Troy's behest, but Nick, oh you made sure he stayed out of your house. He was too volatile.
You want to say, 'obviously, he's my husband' but that would not help with your current plan, nor the fact your hand is in someone elses. The warmth feels foreign with every second your grip lingers there.
Instead of saying what you want to say you say instead, "I heard about your mom, what a shame. All that skill only to be shot by a kid."
His expression twists and all his numbness comes crashing down. He does what you want him to do, he lunges for you.
Thomas is out of his chair with a hand around Nick's throat and all you had to do was sit there. You smile at him from behind Thomas, huff a silent laugh.
"Nick, I had thought better of your control. Are you nothing more than a rabid pet willing to bite its master?" Thomas's voice finally reflects a little of what you know him to be -- a creature of malice.
Nick looks at Thomas and you see it, how easily it must have been for Nick to bend the knee with his family dead around him. The sole survivor. The last man standing. All that survivor's guilt and no desire to lead.
He is the kind of person that makes a cult what it is.
"No one talks about my mom." Nick says, and it's reverent. He has glorified her and you are so damn happy she is dead. Because Troy could have very nearly ended up the same way.
"You want to be a mommy's boy, Nick? Or was your mother too cruel for that?" You goad, and he doesn't get the joke. You do. You never could shake that conversation from your head.
You wrote down a few of the things Madison had said, if only to someday throw them back at her. You never got the chance, but you're getting one now.
"Enough, Raina." Thomas instructs and you obediently snap your mouth closed.
Nick is turning a bit blue, but he doesn't even try to fight the hold. Thomas releases him and he lets out a gasp for air.
You shoot him one final look before schooling your expression as Thomas turns. You hope Nick understood what it meant, you hope he identified it as 'you will be the one to die first'.
Granted if Thomas takes that pleasure you won't cry about it.
"I was not aware the two of you knew each other so well." Thomas remarks, and watches you.
"We go way back." You say casually, adjusting like you're getting comfortable in your chair. You're not comfortable at all actually. "He lived on my family's ranch for awhile."
"Your family?" Nick questions with a laugh.
Your pride tilts your chin up before you can help yourself. "Yes."
"You screw Troy enough he just lets you claim the ranch." Nick spits back, and oh you want to hurt him.
"Pussy can buy you all sorts of things, Nicky. I'm sure you've done your share of unmentionables for a taste of the good stuff."
Thomas watches the two of you and he's shifted into an audience member instead of a participant.
"Do you even understand what Mel and the vultures did?" He demands entirely shifting the direction.
You stand, fists curling. "Say his name again."
"Mel."
"Careful, Nicky." You whisper and you're inches from him.
Thomas is in the corner of your eye, and he's fascinated. This is out of character for the Raina he's picturing in his head, but he likes it. Because this world is different, in theory she would be to. He wants you to be like him, to want him.
There's a tiny part of you that would never say it, but he reminds you of Troy. A different Troy, from a different life. But there are similarities nonetheless. It was part of the reason you trusted him in the first place.
"You know I was lucky." Nick says, and he's whispering too. "Thomas let me be the one to do it. Got to watch him stumble away as he bled to death. Made sure he'd go right up to the door."
There's nothing strong enough in you to hide how that makes you feel. You snap forward and punch him in the jaw. He wheels backward and it gives you the chance to hit him again.
You've done so many combat drills these moves are baked inside of you. He doesn't stand a chance, Nick still fights like a drug kid. All flailing limbs, and desperation. It's the same thing that got Merle killed. It will be what kills Nick.
Your knuckles split as you hit him again and you hear the sound of his nose breaking. He tries to back up but you swing your leg around and knock his knees in.
Thomas stops you, a firm hand on your wrist as it's pulled back. "Raina." It's a clear warning, an askance for obedience.
You obey, even though you don't want to. And you think he likes that you do despite clearly disagreeing with the order.
Nick looks up at you, face and nose bleeding. "I always knew you were a bitch."
Thomas drops your wrist, and knees Nick in the chest. He bends awkwardly backward before falling to his side with a wheeze. "Go."
You watch him leave, hunched over and injured.
"You are right, Raina." Thomas says, stepping closer to you, hand on the square of your back. "You will never be a sheep again."
-
There's blood everywhere, dripping down the tiles, all over you. Nick is laid out on a metal slab, and you watch as the blood drips.
One droplet of red at a time onto the tile. It is by far the worst thing you have done, carving him up. Too deliberate to be only rage guiding you. Your hands are shaking, but you do your best to hide it.
He deserved it, you tell yourself again and again at the sight of all that blood.
You're lucky Thomas is so lax with his control over you. He showed you around the compound, trusted you to do headcounts, to track weapons. Easy.
The journal page is on him, ready for delivery. Thomas liked your idea of sending Nick back, of writing your message. He thinks it's poetic. You think he is a fool in love with a dead woman, but advantages are advantages.
You think maybe after all of this is said and done you may be haunted by this. For tying someone you knew down, for looking in his eyes as you dragged the scalpel across his throat.
You loved his sister once, a long time ago. She will no longer be lonely, but she also most certainly won't want anything to do with you. Not that you two are going to the same place.
Light sunshine and fluffy clouds are not in your future.
Now that you think about it, Alicia is probably quite lonely up there by herself.
If your calculations are right, and you are sure they are he'll be awake in another four minutes. Thomas was down right fascinated when you told him you could predict turn times. He's waiting with you, following along on his watch to see if you are right.
You know you're right, because you know how old Nick is and it's the only factor you usually get wrong.
It's not down to the second, but Nick opens his eyes at the right time and you smile. You've still got it.
Or Troy does at least, it's his equation.
"Remarkable." Thomas whispers looking at you, "On the minute."
You hold on to that enthusiasm and point it at him, it's as genuine as you can get. "It comes in handy every now and again."
"You can do it for any of them?" He asks, and he looks ready to start asking for volunteers.
The resemblance to Troy is uncanny, and it sends a spark of nerves down your spine. It makes you think, makes you reflect on who you are. Would you have seen Thomas's way if you didn't have Troy? Would you have longed for the safety of his bloodied hands?
The answer is a cruel and honest one, yes. You are attracted to killers, to the kind of man who marks in his journal if he is a sociopath. Troy's violence comforts you, and you think Thomas would have comforted you.
There is safety in aggression.
It makes it a little easier to pretend. This is a different Troy, a different man but some of the same foundations.
"What was your childhood like?" You ask, as the two of you make your way to a new room. You don't ask to clean the blood off, there will be more soon enough.
He delights in your interest; he has a hand on your back again. Thomas likes touching you. It reminds you that you hate being touched by people who aren't in your circle. It hasn't been an issue in years. Troy is practically a walking personal space bubble. Might as well go around shouting wide berth at anyone who gets too close.
You fight the urge to grin at the image and focus on what Thomas is saying instead. "My father was a mortician, my mother a housewife. He thought I'd take on the family business, but I was much more interested in life than death."
It seems the right place to nod so you do.
"My father, he was his own man. A man's man if you will. Stern and serious, no feelings involved in the raising process. My mother well I don't know if you knew this but certain things used in the mortuary practice are quite addictive."
"She was an addict." You surmise and he hums a yes.
"Died when I was little, and my father raised me after that. Very strict. I ran as soon as I was eighteen, my grades and poverty standing got me grants to go to school. I made it in the end. When I was getting my bachelor's I met you, well Raina." He looks at you, and if you didn't know everything he'd done he'd look like a lovesick man.
Sick is about the only part that actually applies. Delusional.
He stops in front of one of the many patient rooms and gestures you inside. "I look forward to meeting you again." He says, and it's sweet. Except it's not and you want to snap his neck.
You give him your victim's smile.
"This is where we part for the night, my dear." He presses his hand to the door. "In time, we'll share a room but I think it best to take things slow. Court if you will. Consider Nick my first gift to you."
"I appreciate it." You say, and you mean it. Killing Nick was important to you.
"Rest, Raina. Tomorrow is a bright new day." He closes the door and it locks from the outside.
And you are alone.
-
All things considered, you sleep decently enough on the cot. Part of you considered not sleeping at all, but you trusted at the very least Thomas wants you all to himself. And he wants your eyes on him if he's going to pull something.
He wants your devotion, he won't get that if you're passed out from exhaustion.
So you slept all the way until the light of the morning floods the window waking you up. You've got the thin blanket thrown over you.
"Sleep well?"
You jerk toward the sound and see Thomas leaned against the door watching you. Well you should have counted on that, but all things considered he could have done worse.
"I - not too bad." You want to ask him how long he's been standing there watching you like a freak, but you resist the urge. Barely.
Today your only goal is to find and secure a weapon. Tomorrow hopefully you'll get the chance to use it. You're a little mad you never bothered to learn how to pick a lock, it's starting to feel like a glaring oversight now.
"So what's on the schedule today, doc?" You try for a teasing tone, test the waters.
His answering smile says you're headed in the right direction. "I'm glad you're so cheery this morning, it is rather refreshing I must admit. Though I wish we could go back to the days of your pancakes."
"Shame they don't put those in a can." You joke, and shift to your feet. You're still fully clothed, your arms are coated in flaky dried blood. He doesn't seem bothered by that in the slightest.
"It is isn't it, but I did manage to secure breakfast regardless. Will you come and eat with me?" He offers his hand, and you take it. The whole pretend he's Troy thing is working quite well in your favor. Even if it scares you how easy it is to see the similarities.
The two of you walk into a cafeteria, and you see at least ten others milling about. They all look up and greet Thomas when he enters, many of them giving you looks too. You are immediately one of them it would seem.
None of them seem so much as suspicious. That is every one of them but one. You can't remember her name, but you've always been good with faces. Plus the way she's looking at you gives it away.
Tear tracks and rage. You've shared that expression quite recently several times over.
"You'll have to forgive, Luciana." Thomas says by your ear. "She will get over it in time and if she doesn't, then you can calculate that time for me again. I am curious if you can do it twice, I must admit."
You nod, and look away from her. Luci, that's what it was, has not personally wronged you. You'll kill her if you must, but you won't seek her out to do it. There's an itch along your shoulder blades however that says she'll give you no choice soon enough.
Honestly, you can relate. You're here doing what she wants to do to you right now. It'd be hypocritical to judge her for wanting you dead. Unfortunately for her she's just not going to get what she wants.
He leads you to an empty cafeteria table and sits you down, waving a lazy hand in the air. Someone arrives a moment later with steaming hot food.
"I know it's not pancakes, but rabbit is a luxury in some places." He explains grabbing a fork and knife. You catch the glint of his blade, a butter knife but a metal one. It's enough with the right pressure.
He either doesn't fully trust you yet, or is a control freak because he cuts up your food first before handing it over. If Troy did that for you, you'd make fun of him.
"Thank you." You reply taking the plate. Merle has got to be laughing at you from beneath your feet. What polite trailer trash you are.
It's not a bad breakfast, you don't share Troy's strange desire to murder every rabbit he sees but you don't mind the taste. You've eaten a lot of game in your life, pre-apoc too.
"Sir?" Someone says, and you look up at them. You don't recognize this one as a ghost from your past at very least.
"What is it?" He asks before taking a bite of his own food. Attention caught Thomas sets the knife down and looks up.
Now might be your only chance, but it's too high a risk he'll miss it in a moment. You leave it.
"Some of the others are restless, we've been at this hospital longer than we stay most places. I know it's not my place, but I was wondering if we were going to move again soon. The others, and I to be honest, we like moving around."
What a sniveling bitch. You push down your hostility and keep eating. Now is not the time to say anything incriminating, even if this guy would be easy to mock.
You are distinctly aware you would be sacrificed in a cult. Ironic. There's no way you could ever bow down like that.
Troy and you work because you push each other. Always growing, always climbing higher and higher. Your husband may look delicious on his knees, but he is not the only one who gets on them. It is take and give.
Thomas takes, he gives nothing. He is less like Troy in that way and you're glad for it.
He glances at you and you're glad you left the knife because now it feels more like a test than an opportunity. "We'll be packing up today, gone tomorrow. I'm thinking we move inward for awhile, away from the ocean. I want to show Raina where we met."
Don't panic. Don't panic.
Even if he does take you off somewhere you'll be able to find your way back. It might just take a little while longer, but you will find your way back. You always do.
"Where is that?" You ask, trying to sound curious and not like you're coming up with exit plans.
He looks at you and you don't think you sounded curious enough. He picks his knife back up, dismissing the cultist without so much as a word. "Kansas."
"Long way to go then." You say and try to keep eating. It's hard to keep an appetite. Everything feels tentative, like you might never find the opportunities you're looking for. Maybe you fail and you'll be stuck here forever.
You might never get to go home.
And then you hear it, the shattering of glass. And that crack to crash sounds a little like home, a little too much like hope and Thomas sees it.
He stands, and grabs you by the top of your arm and you're being marched from the cafeteria. His grip is iron clad, but you don't try to pull against him. Now is not your moment, but it will be soon.
Jerking you around a corner he stops in front of one of the doors. "Foolish decision on their part, and here I was about to spare them." He opens it and it's a small closet, likely used for cleaning supplies at one point, but the shelves are empty.
You let him guide you in, more out of surprise than anything. "I will take care of this." The look he gives you next makes you hold your breath. "My second gift to you is not making you watch as I kill them all."
He snaps the door shut and you are locked in. The room is small, you don't have enough room to spread your arms out all the way. You can barely take a step. It's dark too, the only slight the faintest sliver along the bottom of the door.
And in that moment you finally understand. A hand at the top of your arm, thrust into a closet, locked into the dark.
The panic is biological, it comes from nowhere. It comes from your innate fear of spiders and snakes. It is the cavewoman that lives inside you, suddenly you do not feel safe.
You ball your fists smacking on the door. "Let me out, Thomas!" You hit it several more times, trying the knob too. It's a thick door, you don't have the space to kick it down.
He'll keep you in here and you'll be helpless, and if everyone dies no one will find you. You will be stuck in here until you are delirious, until you are a forever hovering shark waiting for the day your door is opened.
How long could you stay like that? Decades? The walkers don't decay the way they should, maybe your bones will disintegrate before anyone ever finds you.
And maybe the situation is different, maybe it's not quite what it was before but you think of Troy. A small little boy thrown in a closet by the person he loved the most. Slamming his fists against the door, screaming to be let out.
You know all of his stories, all of the words he'd used to try to beg his way to freedom. You don't think promising Thomas that you'll be good will get you anywhere. So you keep trying to bust your way out.
Time passes, and your shoulders burn. You'll be coated in bruises tomorrow, but you are not dying in some fucking box. You've been in here maybe thirty minutes, but it feels longer. Time feels untouchable.
Troy would spend hours in closets, two days in the pantry with no lights. You're a bit surprised that he didn't end up a serial killer, you feel ready to go nuts. Though you've never much liked tight spaces, caves or things like that.
They've always made you jumpy. You let out another shout of frustration and yank at the handle again.
It starts to turn and all you can think about is how badly you need to see him. Need Troy to tell you it is going to be alright, to have him promise to protect you. To have a moment where you don't need to be strong anymore.
As soon as the door opens you launch yourself into his arms, "Troy."
His arms tighten around you as you adjust to the light, he smells of lemon aftershave. He doesn't feel right. Shorter, less muscle.
Thomas hugs you back. "I find that upsetting, Raina." His voice is cold as he holds you to him and your eyes blink to adjust.
He can't be here. If he's here then that means the glass was either a fluke or your group lost. You hadn't been able to hear well, but you could have sworn there were gunshots. You'd heard them, they'd existed.
Troy was supposed to be here, supposed to find you.
You find your panic and run it through a shredder in your mind. You squash it down, remove it from the equation. If Troy is not here, then you have a job to do. This falls on you.
If you backtrack you can do this, you just have to wait for the right opportunity.
Your opportunity vanishes as his arms tighten. "I think you've been lying to me." He sounds calm, almost casual with the way he says it and that is your warning that things are about to go wrong.
In response, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your body knows, is trying to warn you now is the time to fight or flee. Troy taught you to always fight, you don't surrender.
You heave yourself backward out of his grip hard enough you stumble into the wall behind you. Throwing up your arms to cover your face, knees bent for balance.
"I wanted so desperately to believe that you were my wife returned to me, that I wouldn't have to do this alone. But you're a liar aren't you? You want to trick me, to pretend to be her. You're not good enough."
Any chance you had at faking loyalty to him is gone in the face of his fury. He is a man who kills defenseless women and nothing more. You are not defenseless.
He lunges at you and you can't go backward so you dive to the side, cutting to put your back to the hallway instead. For now you are alone, except for whoever is shooting in the floors below.
You can hear the shots, methodical not a flurry. It seems like your people, you're trained for situations like this, clearing floors. They will find you or you will find them.
For now there's a bigger fish.
Thomas is breathing heavy, his eyes dilated in anger. He wants to kill you, you're sure of that. It's shown through his entire posture, the readiness of it.
Any second now he's going to throw himself in your direction, you can't take your eyes off him to find a weapon.
But he has one, a thick knife in his belt that he pulls free. His grip on it is casual, untrained. But a knife still deals damage even without precision.
"My name is Dixon." You say to him, gesturing a hand at him to come on. "Hate to break it to you Tommy, but Raina is worm food."
It has the desired effect, he bursts into motion. You underestimated his speed, you're used to sparring against Troy. Thomas is smaller, faster. The blade coasts along your collar and splits skin and your shirt.
You hiss dodging backward. "Lucky."
He swings again with a growl and you start moving backward. If you're lucky you'll spot a stairwell or something. These windows are too thick to try and throw him out of. Unless you find an already broken one.
All you need is an opportunity. Anything will do. He follows, and the two of you are a back and forth flow. Neither able to get too close or too far. There's a corner coming up.
You don't know if you're walking toward others, if this will end badly. But you have to try. It is better than doing nothing.
Two more steps, and turn. Taking the corner as quickly as you can backward you stumble, feet sliding out from under you.
You hit the ground and get the air knocked from your lungs. He's coming toward you, knife aimed down at your chest. You try to move in time, but you know it's going to happen anyway.
A hand snaps out, not your hand, masculine, cuffed in a fatigue sleeve and the blade slides right through his open palm.
Troy.
"Fuck" He snarls, stepping over you. His AR is hanging on his back, forgotten. Out of bullets you'd guess if he didn't shoot Thomas on sight.
He's unarmed outside of the gun, until he yanks the knife free from his hand with a gasp of pain.
He has never looked more like an angel in his life, he may as well have wings. The way he stands over you, ready to use his literal body to protect your own. His hand is dripping blood, but he's completely ignoring it.
"I'm going to kill you." Troy says, "And I'm going to enjoy it."
They go at each other, and end up collapsing to your right in a pile of flying fists and rage. You hear Troy grunt in pain, but you can barely keep up.
Looking around for any kind of weapon you find the hall utterly devoid of anything useful. You pull yourself up to your feet and run for the nearest room.
The closest thing to a weapon you find is a clipboard. The next door is locked, so is the one after. They're still fighting, and you think perhaps Thomas was more trained than you thought he was if he could keep toe to toe with Troy.
You don't think tossing yourself in the middle would help so you check the next room. Again nothing unless you're going to suffocate him with a pair of medical gloves. You grab some though and shove them into your pocket as a way to cover Troy's hand.
Not as useful as you were hoping but it's something. When you return into the hallway Troy is on top of Thomas, knife in both hands as he presses it down toward the other man.
Not thinking you run back toward them, ready to do what other than play cheerleader you don't know. It seemed like the right idea.
Now all you do is watch as the blade gets closer, until you remember that you are also a person with hands and muscle. A person capable of wrath. You reach out your foot and kick in Thomas's elbow.
It's all the leverage Troy needs as he jams the blade into Thomas's chest, and smiles. There's blood dripping down his cheek, in his teeth. And he is victorious as he rams the blade to the hilt, and watches as Thomas chokes.
"You should have stayed the hell away from my family." Troy hisses, yanking the blade out to bring down through his eye. He sits back, before standing. And then his eyes find yours and all that anger vanishes like wisps of smoke. "Vixen."
The two of you stand there like silent monoliths for a brief second, until you're arms around his shoulders and he's practically lifting you from the floor.
You laugh until you can barely breath, clinging to him. "We did it. We did it."
He sets you back down. "Not so fast, we still need to get out. I don't know how many of them are left."
You look down at his hand and offer him one of the gloves. He pulls it on, covering the wound with a wince. "Are you going to be okay?"
He holds his hand in front of his face watching blood fill the glove and flexes his fingers testing, "If I can make a fist." Troy pulls the rifle back up, and snaps a fresh clip in. "I can fire a gun, and if I can fire a gun I can kill."
You laugh, "I'm a little wet right now."
He grins at you, and presses the stock into his shoulder, gesturing you behind him. "Oh, you love this too."
The two of you head back down the hallway and you trust Troy to know where he's going. Likely memorized the entire floor plan given his lack of hesitation as he clears around the corners.
He peeks around another one and pops off a shot. You finch at the sudden noise in the silence and follow as he continues. The corpse is dismissed on the floor as he steps over it.
When he looks around the next corner his posture shifts and he relaxes. He walks around and drops the rifle and you find Jake standing there.
"We're clear." Jake reports without needing to ask. Then he spots you and shakes his head with a smile. "You sure do know how to keep us entertained, little sister."
You are so glad to see them to be surrounded by your family, to know that you've all made it out of this. Troy reaches out and takes your hand with his uninjured one. "Let's go home."