The Sound and the Fury

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Walking Dead or any related title, character, plot, setting, etc. These rights are the sole property of Robert Kirkman, Tony Moore, AMC, and various publishers and distributors. I own only the original elements in this story, the writing and publishing of which earn me no money.

Personal Disclaimer: I am not trying to offend anyone of any background with this story. The protagonist pretends to be deaf through most of the events. Characters refer to her as 'deaf' rather than 'hard of hearing' or any other terms. I am fortunate to be friends with a deaf woman and her translator, both of whom have told me very firmly that the proper term is 'deaf'. If this bluntness offends you, I apologize and encourage you to leave this story before you are offended further.

Chapter One

The camp was well-stocked with supplies of all kinds, but also well-guarded. Fortunately, Collins had a plan.

If Collins had one strength, it was planning. A great deal of her pre-apocalypse life had been spent planning one thing or another, so when the strange stories had started on the news, she had grabbed a few necessary belongings in a light bag and had left her apartment in crowded Philadelphia.

It had been years since she realized that the world had ended. There was a lot she wished she had done before society collapsed, but there was nothing to do about it now. Instead, Collins focused only on survival. She had been part of a few different groups, doing her best to learn something from each.

Her first group had taught her how to survive. In a world of ever-dwindling supplies, Collins had learned to hunt, prepare, and cook any wild game she found in the sparse forests. She had also learned not to trust people. A woman had come into camp, one of the nicest people Collins had ever met, but she had been bitten before her arrival - despite vowing that she had never gotten close to one of the dead. She had turned one night and the group had splintered. Most were dead, and the survivors felt no urge to stay together.

Collins' second group had taught her the value of security. Though they had a number of guns, they had run out of ammunition early on. Collins had learned how to disassemble and clean all of the weapons, even if they weren't operational, and had picked up a few lessons on hand-to-hand fighting from an ex-Marine in the camp. It had been excellent practice, but none of it mattered when a rival group came through to take everything. Most of the group had been killed, but Collins had survived.

Her last group had found Collins wary and untrusting. She had picked up a number of weapons. By this point in the apocalypse, everyone seemed to have found a specialty. Some chose to fight the dead using swords, others chose bows and arrows, still others used large knives or clubs. Collins had even met a man who used a bo staff. Rather than dedicate herself to a single choice, Collins had worked to master every weapon she could. She still struggled with certain types, but she made certain she could handle herself. Of course, all the weapons training in the world could not protect that group when the dead stampeded through the camp. Collins didn't know if there had been any survivors; she had left as soon as she heard the moans.

The last group had been almost a year ago. She had not wanted to join another, even if she had come across a welcoming one. It was almost a pity. Collins would have loved to be part of the group she was watching now.

It seemed to be made entirely of tradespeople, artisans. Some made tools for building, others crafted storage containers that seemed to repel bugs and moisture, still others wove cloth for blankets and clothing. Everyone had a talent or skill to offer the group and Collins would have adored the opportunity to learn, but there were three problems.

First, she had no real skills, not on the level this group seemed to offer. Collins had been an office worker in the real world. It had been boring, mind-numbing work with an unlivable wage, and Collins had taken sign-language jobs on the side to pay her bills. She had learned the basics to communicate with a deaf cousin, but she had never moved beyond that point. Fortunately, most jobs only needed the basics. Most deaf or hard-of-hearing people were quick enough to understand what Collins was attempting to sign. However, rudimentary sign-language skills were not on level with the abilities this group demonstrated.

Second, Collins could not drop her guard enough to ask to enter. Even if she had possessed a marketable skill to belong with the group of artisans, her intention was to gather supplies for a long voyage and make her way toward the midwest. The midwest had fresh water sources, a low population, and farmland that could be used for planting or having animals, maybe even both. Given the right resources, Collins was certain she had read enough about farming to keep chickens and a cow or two alive, as well as grow, harvest, and preserve vegetables. She could have a good life, but not here. Collins had to leave the area.

This was largely due to the third reason. Planning may have been Collins's strong suit, but a close second was her ability to listen. As she wandered the woods, she had listened from a distance to the groups she passed. All of them talked about the great threat: a group that called themselves the Saviors, led by a man named Negan. Interestingly, Collins had heard several conflicting descriptions of the man. It was enough to pique her curiosity, but not so much that she wanted to stay in the area. She was dangerously close to Washington, D.C., and if the high population density wasn't enough to push her onward, the threat of the Saviors was. Everyone seemed to agree that the area on this side of the old city was Savior territory.

Late that night, Collins ducked the rudimentary security measures the artisan group had implemented, evaded the sentry, and made her way to the area where the products of the camp were stored. She thought carefully the whole way, planning to take only a tool or two, a few storage containers, and a new pair of the loose-woven pants the camp produced. Collins's own jeans were beginning to wear thin and she didn't want to travel the long distance ahead of her without pants.

She had been stuffing a pair of pants and a rough-looking hammer into a large storage container when she heard the first whistle. Collins's spine straightened involuntarily and her heartbeat soared. Whistling had always been mentioned in conversations about the Saviors.

She had to leave. Now.

However, the time for flight had passed. The camp was surrounded in moments, the peacefully sleeping group members roused from their sleep with shouting, flashlight beams, and occasional gunfire. Everyone was herded to the largest clearing and forced to their knees, Collins included.

The woman Collins had figured to be the leader of the artisan group glanced at her in confusion. "She's not one of us," she had told one of the gun-bearing Saviors.

The man hadn't seemed concerned. Instead, he only laughed. "Negan will sort out who's who, don't you worry."

That was enough for Collins. Making the snap decision to implement her best thought-out plan, she bowed her head, mouth closed. She remained that way while the Saviors circled the group, mocking their weakness and offering occasional pushes. It reminded Collins of junior high more than anything, when upperclassmen would bully the younger students in petty ways in an attempt to bolster their own power.

She did not give any reaction to the Saviors, doing nothing more than righting herself when one hard shove to her shoulder knocked her onto her hands in the hard-packed dirt, chilled by the winter night.

Finally, the Saviors went quiet. The change was abrupt, but Collins could hear slow, heavy footsteps making their swaggering way into the Savior-edged circle. Collins was dying to catch a glimpse of Negan and discover which of the conflicting descriptions was correct, but there was only one way out of this mess and every detail had to be perfect. She kept her eyes fixed on the dirt just ahead of her knees even as the man began to speak.

"Now, I normally like to start things off by letting one unlucky son of a bitch get real up close and personal with Lucille here, but you folks are a special case. As it happens, my men have noticed all the skills you have here in your little camp. What do you say to a trade? I give you a place to live - a safe place - and everything you need to make your goods, and in return, you make 'em exclusively for me. What d'ya think? We have a deal?"

Silence fell after Negan's boisterous voice stopped. The leader cleared her throat. "If the choice is you or… uh, Lucille, I think we'll choose you."

A deep, oddly-rich laugh burst from Negan at that and Collins was extremely tempted to see if the joy was mirrored on his face. She was betting not, but there was no way to tell. That would give away the game and ruin her plan.

"Excellent choice!" Negan congratulated. "Gather up all of your stuff and my men and I will bring you to your new home, the Sanctuary."

No one moved, despite the apparent dismissal. Collins found herself reluctantly impressed. She must not have been the only one to hear the rumors about the violent leader of the Saviors.

"Oh, I forgot to dismiss you, didn't I? How embarrassing! Can you believe that? I'll tell ya: getting old is not for cowards." Negan chuckled again, and Collins could hear the swish of something flying through the cold air. "You can stand up now."

The entire affair had been neat, clean. A much more civil affair than the stories Collins had heard from the few who had survived a brush with the Saviors and still been able to flee. Collins was half-tempted to stay with the artisan group, but she had places to get to. She had plans.

Everyone got slowly to their feet… except Collins. She released a slow breath and kept her eyes on the ground. It was time for the performance of her life.

"You can stand up now," Negan repeated a bit louder, but Collins remained on her knees, eyes unmoving. "What's your girl's problem?"

"She isn't part of our group," the leader told him. "I never saw her before your men brought all of us here."

"Is that so?" Rather than sounding confused or curious, Negan seemed delighted by the mystery. A moment later, a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire slid below Collins' chin. One of the barbs pierced the skin under her jaw and she jumped slightly, pulling back from the weapon.

"Look, a reaction!" Negan crowed. "I thought for a moment that she died of fright."

Carefully, Collins watched his mouth with slightly furrowed eyebrows, wiping at the tickling bead of blood as it rolled down her neck.

"What, nothing to say?" the man mocked.

He was younger than she had expected of the man who had inspired so much terror in a world filled with horrors. His dark hair had gray strands at the temples, but he still stood straight, athletically swinging the bat back over his shoulder when she didn't present a threat. A smile stretched his mouth, exposing straight, white teeth. It was a friendly expression, but - as Collins had suspected - it left his dark eyes cold and empty.

He was watching her with growing suspicion, and Collins kicked herself into motion. She responded to his question with a flurry of sign language, explaining that she was deaf in the event anyone present understood sign language.

Negan frowned at that, the displeased emotion sitting far more honestly on his face. "What the fuck is that?"

"Sign language," the group's leader said slowly, then called, "Jason!"

"Wait, what is that shit?" Negan growled, pointing the bat at her. "This isn't your group anymore, lady. I'll give the orders. Who is Jason?"

He's one of my men," she responded with her hands raised, palm-out. "He understands sign language. I thought he could translate."

Negan turned slightly to watch Collins. "Jason!"

"Yes, sir?" a male voice asked behind Collins. She did not react.

"Stay there, behind her," Negan ordered, then looked at Collins directly. "Can you read lips?" he asked, moving his mouth in an exaggerated fashion.

She nodded an affirmative.

"You're not part of this group."

It wasn't a question, but Collins shook her head anyway.

"What's your story?"

She signed, Do you understand sign language? Behind her, Jason translated.

Negan slowly shook his head, smiling again. Collins mimed writing, with an eyebrow cocked in silent question. He shook his head once more and she glanced around the clearing as if searching for someone who could help her. Jason didn't move so she could ask him for help, though she wouldn't have been able to recognize him, anyway.

When she turned back to Negan, he was frowning. "I won't always have someone around to translate for you. I need to know you can talk to people without any help. Answer my question, or Lucille will have to escort you outta here."

He lifted the bat slightly as he spoke and Collins tried to slow her rapid heartbeat. Finally, she mimed walking like one of the dead ones, occasionally flashing her bloodstained hands, palm-out, beside her ears to indicate that she could hear at the beginning of the apocalypse. She drew a large shape in the air, a building, then mimed an explosion. She winced in apparent pain, covering her ears. She moved her hands to their palm-out position, then slowly drew her fingers down into fists.

Hopefully, he would understand it was her story. Surely a large building exploding nearby could cause someone to lose their hearing? To her relief, Negan nodded thoughtfully. "And what group are you a part of?"

Collins shook her head slowly, placing a palm on her chest while extending the index finger of the other, indicating that she was alone. "How did you learn sign language?"

Collins paused, uncertain of how to mime out her answer. Negan glanced behind her. "Jason? Here."

A kind-faced man, presumably Jason, came to stand beside Collins and signed slowly, Hello, my name is Jason. I'll interpret for you.

Thank you, Collins returned. My name is Collins. Can you tell him that a man in my original group taught me some sign language?

Jason translated for her and Negan rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin. "Collins, huh? One name, like Sting… or me? What's your first name, doll?"

Beatrice, Collins finger-spelled carefully, making a face to convey her disgust at the name.

Laughing, Jason conveyed her answer. Negan laughed as well, and Collins was intrigued to see that the emotion crept slightly closer to his eyes. "I'd go by Collins, too. Do you have any skills I could use, or should I bash your brains out here and now?"

Paperwork, she answered, shrugging as Jason translated.

"I don't have much use for paperwork," Negan replied with a grin. "Anything else?"

Collins thought about that for a moment. She needed to be alive if she wanted to fulfill her plans, but she also needed to be underestimated, ignored. It looked like she wouldn't be able to escape being brought to the Sanctuary, but the less important she was, the easier it would be to sneak out later. Telling them about her weapons experience wouldn't help that at all, and being stuck in a kitchen all day was less than ideal, so cooking was out. Inspiration struck. Cleaning.

Negan nodded slowly as Jason gave him her answer. "Anything else?"

Nothing, really, she signed with a small, self-deprecating smile. I don't have many skills. That's why I didn't ask to join this group.

Jason, bless his soul, rested a comforting hand on Collins' shoulder as he gave her answer. Negan only shrugged, the motion drawing the spikes of Lucille's barbed wire across the shoulder of his black leather jacket. "We always have a use for janitors, so my little vampire bat here'll just have to be happy with the little sip she had. Grab your stuff and join the group. We'll find you a place at the Sanctuary, don't you worry." With that, he wandered away to shout at the group to hurry.

In half a second, Collins had already decided to leave her small pack hidden in the woods nearby. She was fairly certain she could find her way back here, and could avoid the Saviors finding the few good things she had managed to keep or salvage.

She turned to find Jason watching her expectantly. I don't have anything, Collins explained. Thank you for translating, Jason. It's nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you, too. Jason signed. If you need a translator at the Sanctuary, find me and I'll help if I can.

Collins nodded gratefully, wincing as the motion reopened the small wound under her chin, and Jason walked away to gather his belongings. Minutes later, everyone had been loaded into an army of cattle trailers and they were rumbling away. It was clear to Collins that the Saviors had intended to leave with the group's stuff, whether or not the group themselves accompanied them. Despite her reservations about what was to come, Collins was ever-more certain that she had made the best choice for the situation.

Author's Note - So, the timing on this is a little tricky. This is technically an AU where Rick's group never came to Alexandria. You can picture it a few years before the events of the show or a few years after, but the important thing is that Negan is in charge of the Sanctuary. Or is he..?

Anyway, I hope I didn't offend anyone too badly with this chapter! Collins is, above all, a survivalist in a world that is trying its best to kill everyone.