Desmond Williams:
Desmond's gaze began to wander, ambling from face to face as each one volunteered to do this job or that, then to the radio, sitting silently on the nearby table, and the windows with the shades drawn down. He had stopped listening a bit after he volunteered to help Doug find his friends. Something else was on his mind, nagging, keeping him from focusing. It was a memory, and one he had tried to forget.
It was back in the days when the walking corpses were still surprising, not another hazard of life. Only a few weeks ago, really, but it felt like years. There was a calm to the air, as the predator anxiously waited for a time to strike. For them, that silence was deafening. But for the prey -- for Desmond -- he couldn't hear it, not like he does now.
He'd gotten to the warehouse outside of New York City a day or two after the outbreak. He was smart: he didn't take his chances with a car in the midst of the traffic exodus. Rather, he walked for a while, guard up, and biked the rest of the way once he found suitable transportation. Hell, when he arrived at the warehouse panting, drenched in sweat, in his t-shirt and some dress pants, he didn't know what to expect. There were men, armed pretty well, wearing a don't-fuck-with-me kind of gaze. But they welcomed him in: after a day of running and hiding, he was safe.
The core group was a bunch of ex-Army guys, all from the same platoon, and had shipped out to Iraq for two tours. Their leader was a guy named Patterson; last name, probably, but the guy never gave his first, and his guys just called him Pat. There was another military guy, too, but not from Pat's platoon. The guy was older, seventies or thereabouts, maybe. His name was Thomas, said he'd gone to Vietnam in '65 with the USMC when he wasn't much more than a boy. He always called Desmond "Slick" and made fun of his outfit, but Desmond spent more time with him than anyone else at the place. Pat's authority was unquestionable, but even he respected Thomas' opinion. And when Thomas said that the group should start training the civilians living at the warehouse to shoot a gun and keep watch, Pat agreed. So the old man put a silenced Beretta in Desmond's hand, and brought him out to the edge of the fence.
"You're gripping it like a goddamn sword. No, finger off the trigger until you're ready. Arms out front, shoulders back."
"What do I do when I'm ready?"
"Are you ready?" Thomas asked. Then he pointed out at the walker Desmond was aiming at, standing about fifteen feet away, jaw agape. "That used to be a human. Used to be a man, with a wife, and a kid, maybe. Every morning, he'd put on a suit like yours, say goodbye to his family, and go to work. He had a story. Are you ready to write the ending?"
Desmond's hands trembled. He diverted his eyes away from the walker, and Thomas, and stared at the ground for a long moment. And then a shot rang out from a silenced gun, still loud enough to make Desmond jump and his heart skip a beat. He glanced over and saw Thomas holding his pistol out, and the corpse in a heap on the ground. Desmond opened his mouth but couldn't speak.
"He used to be human, but now he's just a monster in the shell of a man. You should never hesitate to take the shot, not when your life is on the line, or another's. But you better think long and hard about the people who used to occupy these bodies. We may honor their memory by laying their bodies to rest. But the moment we forget that every walker used to be a human, we stop being human. Do you understand, slick?" Thomas' gaze pierced right through Desmond. It was the first time in a long time that someone had been able to do that to him.
"I understand," he replied shakily. "Life is now a luxury, but death is.. All around us."
The sound of a radio crackling to life snapped him back into reality. He looked over at the array on the table, but found it silent. No, the sound was coming from Doug's belt. From his handheld police radio came a male voice, the sound of fear coming out almost as loud as the words he was yelling.
"Is anyone out there?! Please, can you hear me?" Doug stood for a second, shocked to hear the law enforcement frequency active, and then grabbed his radio and held it to his face.
"Uh, yes! This is Officer Douglas Knowles, Wilmington Police. What's going on? Where is your location?"
"I'm on Rockland Road, about ten minutes from the city. I-I got separated from my group. They're coming for me, I can't talk for much longer.. Can you help?" The man's voice became more frantic, his breathing more pronounced.
"Yes, we're on our way. Don't worry." Doug put the radio back on his hip and turned to Desmond. "Only two people I know of still have access to that line besides me, and one of them's up on the roof," he gestured up at Ron.
"So it's your friend, then?" Desmond asked. Doug nodded.
"And the Rookie too, if he made it. You still got my back?"
Desmond checked his Beretta, before dropping the rest of his stuff off in a corner of the room and giving the thumbs-up. "Let's go."
With that, the two nodded to the rest of the group and ran out the door.
