[ iv. i don't bite ]

october 10th, 2010

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CARL GRIMES HAD BEEN shot.

That tiny, terrifying sentence alone was enough to push Greyson Hunt onward for miles and that was exactly what he found himself was doing now. Greyson was sprinting rapidly after Rick Grimes, who—whilst cradling his gravely injured and unconscious son to his chest—was determined to get help.

In the following moments after Carl and the deer had hit the ground, chaos had erupted in the forest clearing. The hunter had showed himself, completely unsuspecting, only to ultimately be punched in the face by Shane Walsh. Meanwhile, as the two fought above, Greyson had knelt on the forest floor, holding an unmoving Carl to the ground as Rick tied a tourniquet around his bullet-torn waist. With only two belts between them, they had been forced to stop the bleeding, fast.

"Hey, you move, shithead!"

Shane continued to spew harsh words at the overweight hunter who was struggling to keep up. Glancing over his shoulder, Greyson could see the man's face was beet red and sweat was pouring off of him in buckets. It was clear that this man was not used to such hard labor.

A little farther in front of Greyson, Rick suddenly faltered, nearly losing his grip on Carl, and had to hoist him back into his arms. "How far?!" He demanded breathlessly. "How far?!"

"Another half mile that way!" The hunter replied, taking in a deep gulp of air. "Talk to Hershel. He'll help your boy."

He pointed further north and without another word Rick spun on his heel and continued running. Greyson was quick to follow, tugging his rifle further onto his back as he sped ahead. The incline quickly turned into a decline and with his feet now moving so fast Greyson could not slow his pace as he abruptly lost control and went crashing down the hill.

Hitting the ground hard, Greyson tucked his knees to his chest as he braced himself for the long fall. Branches and rocks cut into his sweaty body, but the pain was rather easy to ignore as the adrenaline pumped through his flowing veins. Picking himself back up once he reached solid ground, Greyson blinked rapidly as he tried to rid the daze from his ringing head. Then, once the trees stopped spinning, Greyson was running forward again as if he had never fallen in the first place.

After about another five minutes of running, Greyson's eyes suddenly widened on the sight of a large, isolated farmhouse rising in the distance. That must have been the place that the hunter had told Rick and Greyson about. The house where the mysterious man, Hershel, lived.

Pulling his rifle back into his arms, Greyson tried not to think too gravely of the potential dangers lurking ahead as he pushed himself past Rick to ensure that they were not walking into a trap. Stumbling past the open gate, Greyson ran up the long drive, only finally faltering in his haste when the farmhouse's front door swung open, revealing five new faces. Two men and three women.

"Are you any of you Hershel?!" Greyson Hunt demanded breathlessly, stopping just in front of the porch steps.

The eldest of the group, an elderly man with suspenders and bright white hair, lifted his hand. "I am," He informed.

Greyson sighed in relief, though his exhale of breath sounded more like a gasp. "We need help."

Just then, Rick Grimes crashed harshly through the gates sprinted to Greyson's side, his hands soaked with his son's blood. The man, Hershel, frowned at the sight. "Was he bit?" He asked.

"Shot," Rick answered. "By your man."

The eldest woman lifted a hand to her chest. "Otis?" She demanded.

Neither Greyson nor Rick showed the questioning woman any regard as complete concern for Carl retook them both. "Help me," Rick pleaded to the many strangers. "Help my boy!"

"Get him inside," Hershel ordered, quickly turning on his heel as he led the bloody duo into the farmhouse. "Patricia, I need my full kit. Maggie, grab painkillers, coagulates—everything. Beth, Jimmy, get clean towels, sheets, and alcohol." He then pointed at Rick as the father and Greyson were led into a back bedroom. "Put him here."

Hershel removed the bed's comforter and Rick laid his bleeding son across the mattress. "Is he alive?" The father demanded shakily.

Instead of answering, Hershel looked to Greyson. "Son, grab a pillowcase." Grabbing a pillow from the bed, the twenty-two-year-old sprinter practically ripped the pillowcase off and folded it into a pad as Hershel had ordered. "Put pressure on the wound."

Biting his lip, Greyson hesitantly placed the sheet against Carl's exposed abdomen and flinched at the feeling of the boy's warm blood soaking through the sheet and onto his hands. All around Greyson, members of Hershel's family moved back and forth with medical supplies, speaking in such a hasty dialect that he hardly understood them. The noise was becoming too much for Greyson's panicking system and he hurriedly clenched his eyes shut to prevent himself from collapsing next.

"Is he alive?" Rick asked again, pulling Greyson back down to earth.

Hershel grabbed his stethoscope and placed the metal against Carl's bare chest, listening intently. Finally after a moment, the elder doctor sighed in relief. "I've got a heartbeat," He announced. "It's faint, but it's there."

Both men exhaled tiny sighs of relief, but they were only just. Suddenly, Greyson felt soft hands on his arms and he immediately jumped back in fright. He quickly glanced over his shoulder with widened eyes to see the one of the younger girls—Maggie—looking back at him. Her green eyes were as wide with alarm as Greyson's were, but nevertheless she reached out to grab him again. "You have to step back now," She informed. "We've got it."

It took a lot for Maggie to finally pull Greyson back from Carl and when she finally did so, all that he could do was look at his hands. They were covered in red, sticky, and hot blood. Grimacing, Greyson tried wiping his hands clean on his jeans, but it only made the fresh blood smear farther across his body.

Meanwhile, as Patrica began setting up an IV, Maggie soon guided Rick over to Greyson's side, as well. When both men were a safe distance away from the bed, Hershel glanced over to them. "What're your names?" He questioned.

The younger of the pair was the first to answer, swallowing back bile. "G-Greyson," He answered timidly.

"And yours?" Hershel prodded, looking to the man beside Greyson.

Greyson hesitantly nudged at Rick's side, watching as the father seemingly zoned in and out of his own head, unable to accept the harsh reality of what was currently happening to his only child. Finally, after a long, tragic moment, Rick looked up and his once-clear eyes were glassy with tears. "I'm . . . I'm Rick," He announced.

"Rick, we're going to do everything we can, okay?" Hershel attempted to console. "But you and your friend need to give us some room."

Greyson nodded in understanding, moving when Rick could not. Without a single word, Greyson softly grabbed Rick by the shoulders and began guiding him out of the room, only opting to look back at little Carl for one final time. The young boy looked so tiny and weak compared to the people surrounding him. Greyson wanted nothing more than to stay in the room with Carl, but he needed help—the best help he could get in these trying, terrifying times—and Greyson certainly was not going to deprive him of that by taking up extra space.

As Greyson led Rick out onto the front porch, both of their eyes landed on the sight of Shane and the hunter—now known as Otis—making their way towards the farmhouse. They were both breathless, sweat flying off of them as they approached.

"Is he alive?" Otis demanded hoarsely.

Rick was silent, unable to answer. Instead the shaken man merely reached a hand up to brush away the sweaty curls from his forehead, but as a result of this he only managed to smear his own face with his son's blood. Greyson's heart tightened at the ghostly image, fearful and saddened by how broken his leader had become in only a matter of minutes. Rick was gone. Now, the only voice of reason who remained was a young boy who had not even graduated college.

"He's alive for now," Greyson finally informed.

Shane's expression hid any fear for the future as he carefully approached his sobbing best friend and produced a bandanna from his back pocket. Reaching up with trembling hands, Shane cautiously wiped the blood away from Rick's face.

To give the two men their space, Greyson awkwardly moved back into the house and waited for them to finally regain their composure and return on their own. Once all four of the men were inside, it was no surprise to anyone when Rick hurriedly move back into Carl's room. Greyson automatically followed and to his relief things inside the small bedroom seemed to have calmed down drastically.

Hershel glanced up as the four men made their way back into the bedroom. "You know his blood type?" He asked.

"A-Positive," Rick answered instantly. "Same as mine."

"That's fortunate," The older man replied. "Don't wander far. I'm going to need you." He then glanced towards Otis. "What happened out there?"

Otis could not take his eyes off of Carl, his expression screaming with guilt as he began to tell the horrifying story. "I was tracking a buck," He recounted. "Bullet went through it . . . went clean through."

"Well, the deer slowed the bullet down," Hershel pointed out. "which certainly saved his life. But it did not go through clean. It broke up into pieces. If I can get the bullet fragments out . . . and I'm counting six . . ."

Otis abruptly turned towards Patricia who was quick to pull him into a warm, tight embrace. By the way they closely held each other, it was easy for Greyson to assume that they were a married couple. "I never saw him," The man whispered shamefully to his wife. "Not until he was on the ground."

A sudden gasp filled the room as Rick collapsed back against the far bedroom wall with horror. "Lori doesn't know," He murmured, his eyes filling with tears again as the realization hit him. "My wife doesn't know . . . My wife doesn't know!"

Greyson stared helplessly at Rick, unsure of how to help him when he felt like he, too, was moments from falling apart all on his own. Greyson did not understand his own panic. It was undeserving. It was cruel. Carl was not even Greyson's son. Hell, he was not even Greyson's brother, and the older boy was terrified of losing him. Carl did not deserve to go out like this. All he had ever wanted was to help—to look for Sophia—and now he was fighting for his life with his father on the brink of insanity and his mother completely oblivious to the problem at hand.

"You're bleeding."

The intruding words came from none other than Maggie, but Greyson hardly knew they were being directed at himself until he actually looked at her. She was pointing at his arm and when Greyson finally lifted it to check, his eyes widened in surprise.

Unsurprisingly, there was a deep and heavily bleeding gash on Greyson's forearm, stretching nearly from his elbow to his wrist. Greyson merely frowned down at the graphic image of his own limb, unsure of how he had not managed to feel such a harsh wound earlier. Now, though, the pain was much more noticeable. It felt as if Greyson's entire arm was on fire, the nerves burning away within his torn tissues as they reacted to the humid air.

Greyson finally looked away from his arm and back to Maggie, now noticing how her entire family was also watching him intently from over her shoulder. "I fell," He explained with a shrug.

"Grey, you need to get that looked at," Shane suggested. "With this goin' on, the last thing we need is you gettin' an infection."

"I'm fine," Greyson insisted sternly. "I'll wash it up and get some bandages later."

"That's going to need stitches," Hershel pointed out. "I'd do them myself, but this boy needs my help." He then turned towards the older woman in the room. "Patricia, can you handle that?"

Patricia looked over at Greyson with caution, her plump, pale lips pressing together in a firm line. "Yes," She answered stiffly. "Go into the dining room. I'll get the supplies and meet you there."

Greyson hesitantly glanced towards Rick and Shane, silently questioning if his departure were appropriate. The two older men both nodded reassuringly back at him. So, with no choice but to comply, Greyson left the crowded bedroom and walked throughout the house until he found the dining room. It was a big place to the bloody and injured boy, given that he had been living in a tiny apartment for the past few years, so Greyson could not help but look at each belonging and picture as he walked past them.

Lowering himself down into one of the chairs at the long dining table, Greyson cradled his trembling arm close to his chest to avoid getting blood on the polished wood. A moment later, Maggie appeared with a sewing kit. "Don't worry, I'm not doin' the stitches," She explained lightly. "I'm just cleanin' your arm up. Patricia will be in here in a minute."

Maggie laid a cloth down on the table and Greyson gratefully rested his arm on top of it, turning it slightly so that she could address the wound. Grabbing a wash cloth, she lightly dabbed at the clots of blood that had gathered on Greyson's arm as she lowered herself into the seat next to him.

The dining room was silent, Maggie's green eyes staring down at his grotesque arm whilst Greyson's own gray eyes watched her. The young girl was very precise in her work, her nimble hands working carefully to avoid causing any pain. Still, Greyson could tell that she was nervous by the tenseness of her shoulders and if she was nervous, Greyson was nervous as well.

Her short, brunette hair continued to fall in her eyes and she puffed her cheeks out to blow it away. As he silently watched, Greyson Hunt could not deny that Maggie was beautiful. Anyone could see that if they looked at her. The longer he sat there, the more he felt compelled to attempt getting to know her better. He wanted to hear her voice again.

To Greyson's relief, he was not the first to initiate the inevitable conversation. "You must have taken quite the fall," She commented.

Greyson chuckled dryly. "I was running pretty fast," He admitted.

Maggie's eyes flickered up to Greyson's momentarily before diverting back down to his arm. "What were y'all doin' out there, anyways?" She wondered.

"Looking for a missing person," Greyson explained. "A member of our group. She's just a little twelve-year-old girl."

Maggie immediately froze in her work. "What?" She gasped.

"There was an accident and she got split up from the rest of us. We were out there looking for her when Carl was shot."

"Is he your brother?" Maggie assumed.

Greyson shook his head. "I wish," he muttered. "All I've got are sisters."

"Are they still out there?" She asked. "With Rick's wife?"

"I don't have any family left," Greyson informed. "I guess I should've said all I had were sisters."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't know."

The two strangers quickly returned to a timid silence, but it was broken a moment later when Patricia entered the room with a pair of gloves on. Maggie then put down the bloody towel and moved out of the way as Patricia reached for the needle. "This is going to hurt," She informed cautiously. "Maggie, can you hold him down?"

Patricia and Greyson both looked up towards the brunette that had been watching from the corner of the dining room rather intently. At the call of her name, she snapped out of her daze and approached the long table again, now moving to stand right behind Greyson's seat. Maggie carefully placed one soft hand on his bicep whilst the other hovered above his arm, her eyes falling on Greyson's dirty, open palm.

Greyson chuckled. "Don't worry," He told her. "I don't bite."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "I'd hope not," She replied swiftly, but even then Greyson could see the faint tint of a blush forming on her cheeks.

She placed her hand into Greyson's open one and he could not help himself when his fingers automatically curled around hers, holding tight. A faint smile curled at the edge of Maggie's lips and Greyson was just about to smile back at her, but his attention was suddenly blinded, his body overcome with sharp, excruciating pain.

Flinching in his seat, Greyson hesitantly turned his gaze down to his arm and watched as Patricia began moving the tiny needle back and forth through his open wound, trying to bind the flesh back together. Blood began to slip through the tears of Greyson's broken skin and it was quickly dabbed away, but not quickly enough that it did not leave trails on his tanned and irritated skin.

Greyson had only been sitting there for a few minutes before he began to hear piercing screams from the other room and he instantly leaped up, only to be abruptly shoved back down into his chair by none other than Maggie. Greyson's eyes widened in disbelief as the echoing screams became eerily distinct in his rattling ears, many of shouts of pain coming from Carl and Rick alike.

"Stop it!" Greyson boomed angrily at Patricia. "We need to go help!"

"Hershel has it handled," The woman replied swiftly, her hazel gaze still locked on his bloody arm.

Another scream—one clearly from Carl—tore loudly through the silent dining room and Greyson's eyes narrowed into slits. "Does that sound like it's handled?"

Greyson tried to get up again, but Maggie took a step closer to the frantically moving, shifting her hand from his bicep and to his shoulder to establish a firmer grip. "You'll tear the stitches and make things worse," She warned. "Don't waste our medical supplies when we could be needing it later."

"But he needs my help!" Greyson protested.

"How much help will you be when you can't move your arm?" Maggie shot back. "If you want to help that little boy, you need to help yourself first. We're almost done, Greyson. Just a few more minutes."

Greyson clenched his hands into fists, wincing each time another agonized, bloodcurdling scream filled the hostile air. Seconds passed as Carl's screams quickly and harshly turned to sobs, and Greyson knew that the young boy was in pain. He needed help. Maggie's grip only tightened on Greyson's shoulder once more, pushing him further down into his seat like she could read his mind.

And then the screams stopped altogether. Freezing in terror, Greyson whipped his head up in surprise but instead of running like his body screamed at him to do so, he forced himself to stay in the damned seat. Patricia was about nearly finished, the trickles of blood coming less and less. After only a few more minutes, the stitches were finally done and a bandage was being wrapped several layers thick around his arm.

"Grey—"

Maggie could not even finish her sentence before Greyson rose to his feet and practically sprinted for the back bedroom, only to stop abruptly in his tracks when he noticed Rick, Shane and Otis all gathered around, sitting beside one another in the open hallway. Maggie and Patricia appeared at Greyson's sides a moment later, their own expressions anxious.

Now, the door to Carl's bedroom was closed and Greyson swallowed. "What happened in there?" He questioned.

Rick motioned towards his arm. "A blood transfusion," He explained.

Greyson swallowed feebly and jumped back in surprise when the bedroom quickly door opened to reveal Hershel. Everyone that had been sitting immediately clambered to their feet, eager to see what the doctor had to say. "The boy's out of danger for the moment," Hershel announced. "but I need to remove those remaining fragments."

"How?" Rick asked. "You saw how he was before."

"I know, and that was the shallowest one," Hershel confessed. "but I need to go deeper to get the others."

"Jesus," Shane sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"There's more," Hershel admitted grimly. "His belly's distended, his pressure is dropping, which means there's internal bleeding. A fragment must have nicked one of the blood vessels. I'd have to open him up, find the bleeder and stitch it. And he can't move while I'm in there—I mean, at all. If he reacts the same as before, I'll sever an artery and he'll be dead in minutes. To even try this, I'd have to put him under, but if I do, he won't be able to breathe on his own. The same bad results."

"What'll it take?" Rick questioned.

"You need a respirator," Otis murmured.

"And the tube that goes with it," Hershel added. "And extra surgical supplies, drapes, sutures."

"If you had all of that you could save him?" Greyson wondered.

"If I had all of that, I could try," The old man informed, his dark eyes meeting with Greyson's own.

"The nearest hospital went up in flames a month ago," Otis informed. "But the high school . . ."

"That's what I was thinking," Hershel agreed. "In the early days, they set up a FEMA shelter there. They would have everything we need."

"Place was overrun last time I saw it. You couldn't get near it, but maybe it's better now."

Shane sighed, laughing dryly to himself. "Well, I said leave the rest to me," He said, sending a smirk towards Rick. "Is it too late to take that back?"

"I hate you going alone," Rick protested.

"He won't be going alone," Greyson pointed out. "I'll go, too."

"Ain't no way." Shane shook his head.

"Carl's important to me, too," Greyson shot back sternly. "You know I can shoot—I'll watch your back."

"You're not going anywhere with that arm," Patricia argued. "You mess up those stitches, I'm not puttin' more back in. You're still at a high chance for infection. You want to risk that?"

"I'm not risking Carl's life just for the sake of saving my goddamn arm," Greyson retorted coldly. "He needs the help, I'm going to go get it. And Shane can't go alone. He can't walk blindly into a place that could be overrun."

"He's not going alone," Otis finally confessed. "I'll take you there. The school ain't but five miles. I'm responsible for getting us all into this mess—It's only fair that I try to get us out."

"Are you sure about this?" Shane asked uncertainly.

"Boy, do you even know what any of the stuff he's talkin' about looks like?" Otis asked, and when Shane shook his head, he continued. "I've been a volunteer EMT. I know what these things look like. Now, we can talk about this 'til next Sunday or we could just go do it real quick."

Rick pursed his lips, staring at the large man. "I should thank you," He murmured.

"Wait until that boy of yours is up and around," Otis insisted. "then we'll talk."

Otis and Shane then quickly slipped deeper into the house to gather last minute items for the trip which cleared the hallway rather quickly. Meanwhile, Maggie stepped closer to where Greyson and Rick. "Where is she?" She asked of their leader. "Your wife?"

Rick swallowed tightly. "She and a few others were working their way up the creek bed," He answered. "If you can't find them there, search the highway. Look for a giant RV. She's a brunette. Long hair. Her name's Lori. Tell her Rick Grimes sent you."

"I can go with you," Greyson volunteered.

Maggie glanced over at the bloody, blonde boy and gave him a sharp one-look over. "You know how to ride?" She asked.

"Ride what?" Greyson frowned.

Maggie rolled her eyes. "That's enough answer for me," She scoffed. "Just stay here and help my dad. I'll go find your wife, Rick, you can count on that."

And without another word, Maggie Greene abruptly turned on her heel and walked away, leaving both Greyson Hunt and Rick Grimes alone in the dark and deserted hallway of Hershel's Greene's deathly silent farmhouse.

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are you all enjoying this story? i hope y'all are liking greyson. please let me know! i appreciate all votes and feedback comments! thanks for reading!

edited.