It’s a month and fifteen days after Walt shot dead those Hajis in the car. He’s been counting, not that he’ll tell anyone, cause it seems there should be some sort of bad karma coming his way and he’s not sure time’s gonna tell him when but he sort of wants to be prepared.

It’s two days later that everything goes to shit, the whole fucking world - “is this God letting us know how much he enjoyed Shaun of the fucking Dead?” quips Ray - and Walt is still holding his gun the same way a someone might a wet, dirty rag.

He’s on watch three days and several hours in; the hours matter, now, because time’s gone slow and static since it’s just them in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere Iraq and when there’s just the same twenty-some guys reality warps real fast.

Walt can’t help nodding off a bit, hasn’t slept in fifty-two hours and counting, and then there’s that telling sound of shuffling, little clouds of sand in his dimming vision, and fuck it if he’s not awake now. Ray’s at his side in a heartbeat, guy’s got fucking zombie-radar wired in like he was born for this shit, binoculars out.

“Oooh-rah, got ourselves a fiesty motherfucker out there! He’s bookin it. Walt, Walt, get him in the head like you did that one—”

“Shut up, Ray,” Brad says loudly from the Humvee, and clearly everyone’s awake even if they’re pretending otherwise. Walt grimaces, doesn’t thank Brad out loud, and is caught between this strange angry desire to hit Ray and the stronger want to erase the past. Neither’s going to happen, and he lifts his gun, heavy and reluctant, peering down the sight and it’s sort of like looking into Hell.

The thing, zombie - can’t call it a person anymore - is gruesome as they come, spit flying from his mouth along with maybe some teeth as he runs, arms swinging with loose decayed flesh. And still, Walt hesitates. Ray’s rambling about something behind his shoulder but the words won’t hold. Walt breathes out in a hiss, remembers the car, and shoots.

(via newton-pulsifer)