#viciousvulpine

Zach had never been more relieved to pull onto his Uncle Marshall’s drive in his life. That two hour trip had never felt so long in his life. He glanced over at the English guy. He was nice enough, and he’d helped to keep him distracted, but now all Zach could think about was finally seeing his dad. His leg throbbed but his shirt seemed to be holding the blood in at least—excluding what had slid down into his shoe.

The truck ground to a halt and he heard his uncle climb out, but he didn’t move. He waited for ‘Kit’ to slide out before he finally forced himself to scoot down to the tailgate, smiling when Duke bounced around the truck. “Go on boy, check it out.” That seemed to be all the big German shepherd needed, for he bounded from the truck with a bark and started zipping around the driveway and yard. He was just debating the best way to get down without drawing too much attention to himself and the fact that he was hurt when he heard the door to the house open.

He glanced up, saw his dad, and decided it didn’t matter. Practically catapulting himself from the truck bed he hurtled toward his father, relief overwhelming his pain for a few moments even if he still limped—he didn’t feel it. “DAD!!”

Matt heard the truck long before it arrived and stood by the window, watching, forcing himself not to hope too much. It was unlikely that his son would be alive after all. He knew that. After seeing Bridgeport, a town not even a quarter of DFW, it was even more unlikely and he knew it. What little hope he had left dimmed when Marshall climbed out of the cab and slammed the door, followed by JD and a stranger. Then another stranger became visible from the bed of the truck and his heart skipped a bead. He slid closer to the window, his grip on the sill white knuckled, and then another head, smaller, a mixture of tousled brown and golden hair gleaming in the morning sunlight.

He barely remembered crossing over to the front door.

It rattled from the force he put behind opening it, but he didn’t care. His son was alive. He crossed the yard, meeting the small lurching figure halfway. He crushed him to his chest, ducking his face into his neck and shoulder. “Hey buddy…” His shoulder protested the weight and grip so he sank to his knees so his son could rest on his feet, but didn’t let go.

After Jo left him he abandoned the sandwich, not really hungry anyway. Instead he moved to the window to peer out. It was too surreal—as if the hysteria they’d barely escaped in Dallas didn’t even exist. It did though, and it had already taken his wife. How much longer would they be around? JD and Marshall were out there right now looking for his son when they both knew the likelihood of his survival after the entire group had almost died was fairly minimal.

He shook his head and pushed away from the window. Fuck this waiting around shit.­ Shoving out the door he headed for the stairs, ignoring the way his shoulder protested his sudden speed and jerking around. “Fox?”

He moved down the stairs, heading to the kitchen to grab some bottles of water. Tossing them in a bag he moved down the hall to Marshall’s room knowing that was where he stored most of his extra ammunition. He thought he heard the woman behind him, so he didn’t bother to look up from where his face was buried in a sea chest. “Let’s go see if your plane is good. If we can clear out some of the walkers, then maybe when the group gets back, we can all get on it.”