![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Fic: Funky Little Shack (Walking Dead, gen)
Apparently, it's been 10 years since Canadian Shacks first started popping up all over the fanish countryside. Wow am I getting old.
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cesperanza's hosting a 10-year anniversary party and I have erected a shack to help celebrate (well, two, technically, but caring about such technicalities seems a bit silly, given the context).
Of course it's in a fandom no one I know watches... ya'll should be getting pretty used to that by now. AWSOME bonus ASCII art provided free of charge (yes, I'm oooooollllldddd).
Read on AO3.
Title: Funky Little Shack
Author:rivestra
Rating: Gen
Fandom: The Walking Dean
Length: 1050
Summary: When you're on the run from zombies, sooner or later you're gonna end up in a Canadian Shack.
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
* * *
When the herd broke through the customs fence, the group took off like doves from a cannon, scattering pell-mel across the ice.
Daryl slammed the door behind them, the noise so loud they didn't have to hear the sickening snap-squelch of the walker's fingers pinching off. That didn't stop Carl from seeing them plop, though, thick and bloated, rotting sausages falling one-by-one in slow motion to the rough wood floor.
Carl felt himself turn a little green.
He really didn't think he should still be doing that after so many months on the run.
Daryl drove the bolt home with a, "Fuck!" and another slam, this one gratefully solid and very comforting. Carl grinned; at least being stuck with Daryl meant he could swear.
It also meant they were gonna be just fine.
"There!"
She could barely hear Shane's whisper, but Rick's head swiveled, and she followed his eyes. Squinting through the gloom, Lori could just make out the outline of a structure, set way back in the middle of the ice field. She nodded.
Silently, they took off across the frozen lake. Lori's center of gravity wasn't where it used to be so she tried desperately to stay upright as they ran linked together by their freezing hands. She was pretty sure they'd lost the herd at that last turn, but there was a storm coming and she wasn't about to stop running.
They skidded to a stop a few yards from the structure. This was their salvation? It wasn't promising—just a funky-looking little shack with a rusted tin roof. Ice glittered balefully at her from the front porch. Rick, ever the optimist, pointed out that its chimney meant they could have a fire and that the place had to be more solid than it looked to have survived up here.
Lori sighed softly and tried to be grateful. Shane heard her and grinned. She didn't smack him.
Rick approached the door first, of course, but he pushed Lori and Shane through before him. The whole shack shimmied as he slammed the door and put his back to it. She watched his face for any sign he'd seen something but decided it was just too much adrenaline.
Shane had already prowled a circuit of the entire shack—not that that took long. He was checking the chimney, firewood at the ready, by the time Rick peeled his back away from the door. Lori was still standing there in the middle of the room, watching them both.
"He's fine, Lori." Rick said, suddenly very close. He slid his arms around her, clasping his hands over her belly. "The herd followed us, just like we planned." He turned her gently around to face him, but his voice hardened. "You," he punctuated the word with a little shake and, for some reason, she let him, "were supposed to go with Daryl."
A rough laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Shane looked up from his fire building, failing to project even his usual false disinterest in their conversation. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants and glaring at her seriously.
Rick wasn't glaring—quite.
She pushed her hysteria down and took a deliberate step away from them both, needing to lift Rick's hands off her forearms to do so. "Tell that," she said with a broad-spectrum glare of her own, "to the dozen walkers that got between us." When she was satisfied with their contrition, she continued, "I diverted their attention and took off after you two."
Rick stared at her.
Shane closed his eyes and grimaced.
Lori gave up. Desperate to get off her swollen feet, she dropped to the room's sole mattress. It puffed glitter up all around her. This time, her laughter was genuine. "What the hell is this place, anyway?"
As a unit, the three of them surveyed their little shack. Woodland creatures, decked out in psychedelic colors, peered at them from every nook and surface, as if Tim Leary had designed a line of woodland kitsch for Wal-Mart. Pizza boxes were stacked improbably high on the small table, supported only by a tower of Molson six-packs. A narrow hallway opened off to their left, fine metallic glitter glinting back at them where the firelight hit, and a huge garish jukebox loomed inexplicably at them from its dead end.
Rick lowered himself down next to her too tired to try to explain any of it. He pulled her to his side, apology in every muscle. She let him and then, after a moment, deliberately leaned into him. Shane had returned to fiddling with the fire, and she watched him, trying not to think too hard about anything.
Rick jerked suddenly awake again beside her when she said, "Leave it, Shane. It's getting hot as an oven in here." She started pulling off layers and didn't stop until she was wearing only the bottom one, a long-suffering tank that had been with her since this all started. Mentally she added "super-efficient fireplace" to the list of oddities about the shack, but didn't even bother with a sigh. Rick would probably think she was sighing about him and, besides, all this heat was clearly for the best.
Who the hell puts a king-sized bed in a shack and then leaves only one blanket?
"Two-o'clock!" Carl shouted and braced himself against the pitch of the roof. The ginormous boom sounded before he'd firmed up his grip and he slipped, grinning like a maniac even as he dangled by one hand.
"Is that all of 'em?" Daryl called up, his own grin loud in his voice.
"We got the fuckers!" The word sounded alien, but Carl liked it. He liked it even more that Daryl didn't notice. Carl let himself drop instead of scrambling back up onto the roof, landing hard directly in front of Daryl.
Daryl patted the RPG on his shoulder proudly. "Damn fine of those 51st Staters to leave us such nice toys." He turned back toward the shack, eyes moving possessively over stockpile that glinted darkly at him from within.
Carl grinned even wider. It was time to go find Mom.
Endnote: Even my crack tries to turn serious. Sorry. I'd apologize to the B52's, but they don't seem like the kind of people who'd mind. Many thanks tosnarkgoddess for the lightening beta.
~ Fic Index ~
cesperanza's hosting a 10-year anniversary party and I have erected a shack to help celebrate (well, two, technically, but caring about such technicalities seems a bit silly, given the context).Of course it's in a fandom no one I know watches... ya'll should be getting pretty used to that by now. AWSOME bonus ASCII art provided free of charge (yes, I'm oooooollllldddd).
Read on AO3.
Title: Funky Little Shack
Author:
rivestra Rating: Gen
Fandom: The Walking Dean
Length: 1050
Summary: When you're on the run from zombies, sooner or later you're gonna end up in a Canadian Shack.
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
When the herd broke through the customs fence, the group took off like doves from a cannon, scattering pell-mel across the ice.
____________________________________________ / / NOW ENTERING C A N A D A /_____________________________________________
Daryl slammed the door behind them, the noise so loud they didn't have to hear the sickening snap-squelch of the walker's fingers pinching off. That didn't stop Carl from seeing them plop, though, thick and bloated, rotting sausages falling one-by-one in slow motion to the rough wood floor.
Carl felt himself turn a little green.
He really didn't think he should still be doing that after so many months on the run.
Daryl drove the bolt home with a, "Fuck!" and another slam, this one gratefully solid and very comforting. Carl grinned; at least being stuck with Daryl meant he could swear.
It also meant they were gonna be just fine.
_________ | | | ICE | | FISHING!| | | | 24 KM | |_________|
"There!"
She could barely hear Shane's whisper, but Rick's head swiveled, and she followed his eyes. Squinting through the gloom, Lori could just make out the outline of a structure, set way back in the middle of the ice field. She nodded.
Silently, they took off across the frozen lake. Lori's center of gravity wasn't where it used to be so she tried desperately to stay upright as they ran linked together by their freezing hands. She was pretty sure they'd lost the herd at that last turn, but there was a storm coming and she wasn't about to stop running.
They skidded to a stop a few yards from the structure. This was their salvation? It wasn't promising—just a funky-looking little shack with a rusted tin roof. Ice glittered balefully at her from the front porch. Rick, ever the optimist, pointed out that its chimney meant they could have a fire and that the place had to be more solid than it looked to have survived up here.
Lori sighed softly and tried to be grateful. Shane heard her and grinned. She didn't smack him.
Rick approached the door first, of course, but he pushed Lori and Shane through before him. The whole shack shimmied as he slammed the door and put his back to it. She watched his face for any sign he'd seen something but decided it was just too much adrenaline.
Shane had already prowled a circuit of the entire shack—not that that took long. He was checking the chimney, firewood at the ready, by the time Rick peeled his back away from the door. Lori was still standing there in the middle of the room, watching them both.
"He's fine, Lori." Rick said, suddenly very close. He slid his arms around her, clasping his hands over her belly. "The herd followed us, just like we planned." He turned her gently around to face him, but his voice hardened. "You," he punctuated the word with a little shake and, for some reason, she let him, "were supposed to go with Daryl."
A rough laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Shane looked up from his fire building, failing to project even his usual false disinterest in their conversation. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants and glaring at her seriously.
Rick wasn't glaring—quite.
She pushed her hysteria down and took a deliberate step away from them both, needing to lift Rick's hands off her forearms to do so. "Tell that," she said with a broad-spectrum glare of her own, "to the dozen walkers that got between us." When she was satisfied with their contrition, she continued, "I diverted their attention and took off after you two."
Rick stared at her.
Shane closed his eyes and grimaced.
Lori gave up. Desperate to get off her swollen feet, she dropped to the room's sole mattress. It puffed glitter up all around her. This time, her laughter was genuine. "What the hell is this place, anyway?"
As a unit, the three of them surveyed their little shack. Woodland creatures, decked out in psychedelic colors, peered at them from every nook and surface, as if Tim Leary had designed a line of woodland kitsch for Wal-Mart. Pizza boxes were stacked improbably high on the small table, supported only by a tower of Molson six-packs. A narrow hallway opened off to their left, fine metallic glitter glinting back at them where the firelight hit, and a huge garish jukebox loomed inexplicably at them from its dead end.
Rick lowered himself down next to her too tired to try to explain any of it. He pulled her to his side, apology in every muscle. She let him and then, after a moment, deliberately leaned into him. Shane had returned to fiddling with the fire, and she watched him, trying not to think too hard about anything.
Rick jerked suddenly awake again beside her when she said, "Leave it, Shane. It's getting hot as an oven in here." She started pulling off layers and didn't stop until she was wearing only the bottom one, a long-suffering tank that had been with her since this all started. Mentally she added "super-efficient fireplace" to the list of oddities about the shack, but didn't even bother with a sigh. Rick would probably think she was sighing about him and, besides, all this heat was clearly for the best.
Who the hell puts a king-sized bed in a shack and then leaves only one blanket?
______________________ ______________________) O O ______________________) O BOOM! )_|||
"Two-o'clock!" Carl shouted and braced himself against the pitch of the roof. The ginormous boom sounded before he'd firmed up his grip and he slipped, grinning like a maniac even as he dangled by one hand.
"Is that all of 'em?" Daryl called up, his own grin loud in his voice.
"We got the fuckers!" The word sounded alien, but Carl liked it. He liked it even more that Daryl didn't notice. Carl let himself drop instead of scrambling back up onto the roof, landing hard directly in front of Daryl.
Daryl patted the RPG on his shoulder proudly. "Damn fine of those 51st Staters to leave us such nice toys." He turned back toward the shack, eyes moving possessively over stockpile that glinted darkly at him from within.
Carl grinned even wider. It was time to go find Mom.
/\ /\ /\ |T | |H | |E | | E| | N| | D| |__| |__| |__|
Endnote: Even my crack tries to turn serious. Sorry. I'd apologize to the B52's, but they don't seem like the kind of people who'd mind. Many thanks to
snarkgoddess for the lightening beta.~ Fic Index ~