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Tango couldn't do much, but he did what he could. In the summer, spring and fall, days were spent with Ren collecting wood, Doc building, and Jimmy foraging or hunting.
Before Ren made Tango's attachments, the three would take turns making food, cleaning the house, and checking on Tango. But now that Tango could sweep, he swept. He could mop, and dust, so he did so.
While he used to join Ren in building the things they needed— right now, a wood shelter for when it snows and rains— he worked himself just as hard with cleaning the house.
He didn't need a special attachment to wipe surfaces, to fold clothes, to organise rooms, so he did so, taking painstakingly long with just his stumps.
He even offered to make food, but the others were worried the chance of burns made it too dangerous. Even Doc was, and Doc’s usually the person who would assure that Tango could do something, or that the others should stop saying what they're saying.
Tango would need the whole work-day to clean the house, sweeping, scrubbing and all. No music to play, so he made some himself. Humming and talking to himself, he'd always done it when working.
But past his humming, he heard a gunshot. It was so jarring that he just stood there, in the living room, for a moment.
It was right next to him. Just outside the house, to the side. What was it? Who shot it? Raiders, again?
The front door slammed open, and Tango flinched, fearing for his life. It was Doc, thank god.
“Tango.” It was authoritative, but quiet. “We need to get you hid.”
But they didn't have time for that. The raiders had a gun, and the only weapon outside would be the axe in Ren’s hand, made dull from the day's work.
But beside that, Doc's metal arm was not resting, but limp. He followed it up to the faux bicep, which had a hole straight through it. Thank god it wasn't his real arm.
“Tango!” It wasn't a real yell, but it was made to sound like one. It didn't quite snap Tango out of it, but it did its job. Tango was moving.
He opened the door to the bathroom himself but struggled on the cupboards, so Doc opened them for him and held them there.
Tango crawled inside. Doc shut the cupboards and then the bathroom door. Tango heard the footsteps to the door, then him picking up the machete that lay sharpened beside it.
Doc stood there, for whatever reason. Tango kept his ears peeled.
After some time— a few minutes at most— Doc opened the door and left.
Tango was alone and in danger. If one of the raiders found him, it was game over. Without two of the people in camp— Jimmy was hunting and might not have even heard the gunshot— chances were low.
It was dark, so dark. No light seeped through the crack on the cupboard. Tango felt a chill run through his body. Fuck. He shut his eyes tight to stop the tears from coming. Now was not the fucking time.
Of all the times to be triggered, it had to be when he's alone and in danger of raiders. It had to be when he couldn't make it better because if he did, it meant certain death. Or at least throwing himself into the reach of it.
He had no way to defend himself but his teeth. He couldn't wiggle so hard they decided to let him go. And they had a gun, so they could just end it before they got close enough for Tango to even try.
But they seemed to shy from using the gun, because Tango only heard yells and grunts, shoves and falling.
More than anything, it reminded him, because it was dark and all he could do was listen.
The front door opened. Tango held his breath, he didn't know who it was, friend or foe. Boots landed on the wood floor, and another pair joined him, still speech coming from the both of them.
They came closer, but stopped, and continued to speak. The bathroom door opened. Tango froze and he learned the meaning of his blood running cold.
The person opened the medicine cabinet, and emptied Tango’s Crew’s hard-sought painkillers into the stolen raider bags.
A hand landed on the cupboard handle. Tango only then realised he'd opened his eyes in shock, fear, and need to intake as much as possible, as if it would help him survive.
The door opened. Mouth agape, eyes dry, he played dead. He was stiff against the cupboard’s bottom anyway.
The man looked him over, looked him in the eye. Tango would die here, whether or not he scrambled to get out before getting shot.
However, the man's face quickly cringed in disgust, but Tango could barely see it from the position his eyes were frozen in. The man lazily shut the cupboard and…backed away. Left the room, but left the door opened.
Tango blinked, but he kept that position for hours, terrified.
He kept it as his muscles got sore and burned. He kept it as he cramped, widespread. He kept it as the footsteps left the house and lingered outside. He couldn't risk it.
Night hit, but they were long gone. Tango stayed in there, even as the voices left. It wasn't until the light had fully faded from the opening in the cupboard door that Tango even dared to crawl out.
Tango walked to the door. The living room was ransacked, both bedroom doors flung open, as well as the garage.
Tango walked to the front door. Deep crimson sat in small puddles and thin splatters on the grassy dirt, on the planks beside the wood shelter, and shreds of fabric by the chopping block.
Tango shivered. Whose blood was whose? There were no bodies, and raiders left bodies. Not of their own, but of their victims. Doc, Ren, Jimmy might have been alive.
Tango didn't have anywhere to stay for the night, but he knew his way to Impulse and Skizz’s place. A foolproof plan.
…Except for the fact that he needed help to put on the boots that he needed to walk outside. Tango was staying here, alone for the night.
While his attachments had dug into his skin due to the belt fashioned around his stumps, he was able to pull them off by positioning the strap between a door and holding the door in place while he painfully pulled it off.
There was swelling, and a little bruising, but it would heal. They both would.
Tango shut the front door, but couldn't lock it. He shut the garage door, but couldn't lock it either. He shut his bedroom door and barricaded it as a last defense.
If zombies came— which they would, as there was a gunshot— then they would push the doors open and Tango would be doomed. He laid in his and Jimmy's walk-in closet, hoping the zombies couldn’t learn how sliding doors worked.
The exhaustion was getting to him, and he needed rest. The house was pitch-dark when he fell asleep, and when he awoke, as well. It was a dreamless, unrestful sleep.
The banging woke him up. He'd trained himself to wake up to that, when he was able to fight them.
Now, the only good it did was send chills down his spine. They were outside the bedroom door, outside the walls. They knew he was there, they'd heard him, somehow.
Tango had managed to push the nightstand against the door. He prayed to god it would hold, as he stayed awake in terror.
Light filtered through the blinds, and little by little, the zombies fled.
A few remained, though, even after the sun rose; the ones inside the house. Just one could kill Tango, who was defenseless. He couldn't even run from them, had he found himself close.
All he could do was sit and wait. Wait for what? A saviour. Maybe his friends survived and they would come for him.
Maybe he would die here.
Every movement made the zombies groan and bang harder. There was nothing to do but think.
Jimmy got back to the base and saw the blood. He quietly laid the raccoon on the dirt, and took every step carefully. Raiders had been or still were here.
He saw a bullet shell beside a cut-off wire. Doc. But Jimmy had their only loaded gun.
Boot marks were spread throughout the soft mud of their front area, fresh ones; the mud hadn't dried around them yet. They were still here.
He saw tracks leading into the woods where he hunted and Ren chopped. He’d followed the tracks to a cave. He knew it as the cave they four agreed to go if ‘shit went down’, as doc said.
He slowly walked inside, brandishing the hunting rifle in case it was raiders.
He gasped and dropped it at the sight.
Doc’s coat was tied around Ren’s leg, which was seeping blood. Ren’s hand was in a similar state, held in his lap and wrist wrapped in a tourniquet of his shirt sleeve, the rest of the shirt used to wrap the hand and further cushion it.
Ren had his arm around his axe and the other around Doc, who had only one good arm at the time.
Likewise, at the sight, Ren sighed and relaxed his grip.
Jimmy stepped forward and sat across from them, as if there was a fire between them.
It was tense with rhetorical questions that remained unasked. The house’s exterior looked like a battlefield, spare the bodies.
Still, Jimmy had to ask to be sure. “Raiders?”
Doc nodded, his lips a thin line.
“I think they're still there.” Jimmy said, though, surety was there.
“I doubt it's been long.” Ren's voice rasped, stilted from the pain.
“When I got there the tracks were fresh.” Jim explained, but he caught his breath just after. “Where's Tango?”
Doc’s and Ren’s eyebrows mirrored Jim’s concern in the absence of speech. Doc dared to answer. “I hid him before it went down. We had to leave him.”
Jimmy barely hesitated. He stood in the cave and went to turn around, but Doc leaned forward and grabbed his arm. Jimmy turned back and saw the other one limp, then fixed his gaze on Doc's face.
“They have nine people and the same gun as you.” He reasoned.
“They have Tango.” Jimmy listened, he just didn't care.
“You don't know that.” Doc loosened his grip, “They could've missed him.”
Jimmy stilled, and thought about Doc's point. He would die. And if Tango didn't? If Tango was alright?
Jimmy sat down, and the sun was about to set, so they had to wait out the night.
Jimmy chose to take watch, as he wasn't injured and was already the closest to the cave opening.
When Doc woke up before the sun even rose, and offered to help Jim get some rest. Even then, he couldn't get to sleep. His anxious thoughts kept him conscious even as his eyes shut and he dozed off a little. The imagined jumpscare of a zombie reawakened him.
As soon as the sun rose, Jimmy goy out of the cave. He neglected his daily morning stretch to walk to the house. He needed to see Tango, desperately.
He saw more footprints than last time spread through the mud, which assured his belief that they were still there. He neglected the carcass of the raccoon he killed last night. He stepped inside and called out Tango's name.
There were zombies inside, and he didn't even look around first. They were surrounding his bedroom door, but now they tried to surround him. As long as one had a weapon, just a few zombies wasn't a problem, and Jimmy carried a bat on a belt when he went hunting. Or anywhere, really.
He pushed the door, but it didn't budge. He closed it the small gap that it was open by, then tried to open it— it slammed into wood. Tango was there, he had barricaded it. A large ball of guilt released itself from Jimmy's gut at the realisation.
He chose to push the door from the bottom with his shoulder, and it somehow worked. Barely, but it did the job.
Once the crack in the door reached just enough to squeeze through, Jim held his breath to make the fit. On the other side, he called out again. “Tango?”
No response. But he was here.
Jim looked under the bed and behind the storage boxes, no Tango. He checked the closet, scanning up to down.
There he was. Tango was in a version of knees bent and holding them to his chest with his arms— the best version he could be in.
Jim didn't hesitate, just wrapped his arms around Tango, crouching beside him.
Jimmy started crying into Tango, whispering high-speed nonsense about how he's so glad to have him back.
A minute later, Tango leaned his head into Jimmy's chest, and Jim calmed his tears.
A minute later, Tango had a question. “Are we safe?”
Jim nodded and kept tears at bay. “Yeah. No raiders, no zombies. Doc and Ren are holed up in a cave.”
Tango let out a sigh of relief, and leaned all his weight on Jimmy. Jimmy smiled, bittersweet.