Riding on a motorcycle is a lot louder than Abby thought it would be, more chaotic, but she can shield herself behind the bulk of Daryl's body as he drives them on and on and on. If she cries a little, just at the start, there's no way he would know. Right? She's thinking about Owen finding the note that she left him, folded on his bed. And then she breathes in deep and lets it go, and falls into the rhythm of shifting her body on the bike to help him with the corners. Her arms inch around his waist, and then tighten there once they start to pick up speed.
It's a strange way to travel. She's very aware that she isn't wearing a helmet of any kind, that if they crashed she'd probably die, but the thought doesn't scare her. She's more interested in the journey, soothed by their consistent movement, that she can feel them getting closer and closer to Wyoming.
Hours pass. She's not in her head but not out of it either, she's just- there. Existing. Listening to the wind whistling and feeling the bike rumble, and smelling whatever's on the air, cow shit, sometimes the familiar, fungal smell of infected lingering on everything, the metallic scent of rusting cars that gets in her mouth somehow, sits on her tongue.
When he moves suddenly to pull the pike out she jolts alert. She wasn't sleeping but her mind was definitely wandering, and she grabs him suddenly when he pierces the head of the clicker on the way by. When he trawls the bike back and stops, the silence rings in her head.
Abby sets her feet down. The bike is tall, her feet are just able to be flat on the road. She sits up straight and squints into the middle distance but she barely has to- there's more, coming in from the west. She pats his arm, points them out soundlessly. A little group, moving steadily toward them.
She's heard they migrate.
Where's the pike? Is it stuck? She looks at him, and takes out her gun, attention flickering nervously back to the advancing hoard. Whispers, "I'll keep you safe."
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It's a strange way to travel. She's very aware that she isn't wearing a helmet of any kind, that if they crashed she'd probably die, but the thought doesn't scare her. She's more interested in the journey, soothed by their consistent movement, that she can feel them getting closer and closer to Wyoming.
Hours pass. She's not in her head but not out of it either, she's just- there. Existing. Listening to the wind whistling and feeling the bike rumble, and smelling whatever's on the air, cow shit, sometimes the familiar, fungal smell of infected lingering on everything, the metallic scent of rusting cars that gets in her mouth somehow, sits on her tongue.
When he moves suddenly to pull the pike out she jolts alert. She wasn't sleeping but her mind was definitely wandering, and she grabs him suddenly when he pierces the head of the clicker on the way by. When he trawls the bike back and stops, the silence rings in her head.
Abby sets her feet down. The bike is tall, her feet are just able to be flat on the road. She sits up straight and squints into the middle distance but she barely has to- there's more, coming in from the west. She pats his arm, points them out soundlessly. A little group, moving steadily toward them.
She's heard they migrate.
Where's the pike? Is it stuck? She looks at him, and takes out her gun, attention flickering nervously back to the advancing hoard. Whispers, "I'll keep you safe."