Chapter 6: The Cover Story
Morning dawned heavy, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, acrid tang of last night's fire, embers glowing faintly in the pit. Elias sat on a log, his boots scuffing the dirt, a rusty can opener in his hands, his fingers fidgeting with its handle, a new tic that pulsed with his nerves. His throat was dry, tasting of dust and the metallic sting of blood from last night's nosebleed, his temples throbbing faintly. The camp was quiet, a nervous hush, eyes darting to him, questions unspoken but heavy. They're waiting, he thought, a memory flashing—his old boss, staring him down after a mistake, the air thick with judgment. Rick's gaze was steady, a quiet weight, while Shane's was a burning brand, his suspicion a live wire. Elias's heart thudded, his mind racing, rehearsing the lie he'd weave to cover his tracks.
He stood, the can opener clattering into his pack, the sound sharp in the stillness. "Alright," he said, his voice too loud, cracking with nerves. "I know you're all thinking it. Last night… it was weird, right?"
Dale, perched on a folding chair, peered over his glasses, his eyes sharp, probing. "Weird?" he asked, his voice gravelly, his breath smelling of mint. "Those walkers turned like they were on a leash, Elias."
Elias's heart lurched, his fingers twitching on the can opener, the tic relentless. He's too sharp, he thought, a memory of a teacher's scrutiny flashing, her eyes narrow. He forced a grin, his voice light but strained. "That's… uh, that's the thing," he said, bouncing on his heels, nervous energy spilling out. "I've got this… knack. Like, a psychic thing." This sounds insane, he thought, his stomach clenching, a memory of a bad lie in school flashing, the air heavy with laughter. "It's not big. Just… instincts. I feel where they're going, sometimes. It's weak, and, uh… it wipes me out. Headaches, nosebleeds, the works." He gestured to his shirt, the faint bloodstain a prop, his fingers trembling slightly.
[SYSTEM: Cover accepted: Group trust +10%. Nosebleeds don't sell it, though. Try harder next time, psychic.]
The HUD's mocking tone was a cold jab, the blue flicker a reminder of his lie's fragility. From Dale's perspective, the old man's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. He's lying, Dale thought, his hands tightening on his chair, the wood creaking. The muttering, the glazed stares, the "Karen" slips—it wasn't psychic. It was delusion, or worse, a secret. Dale had seen liars, and Elias's story was too neat, too practiced, the nosebleed a convenient truth to mask a bigger lie. He's dangerous, Dale thought, his heart heavy, the camp's safety his burden.
From Shane's perspective, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning, his breath hot with rage. He's playing us, Shane thought, his hand twitching toward his gun, the air thick with paranoia. Elias was a threat, a drifter stealing his place, making him look weak. Amy's save was a power grab, a move to undermine him, and this "psychic" nonsense was a con. He's gotta go, Shane thought, his heart pounding, the camp's fragile order his to protect.
Elias felt their gazes, a mix of skepticism and relief, his heart racing, his fingers relentless on the can opener. It's working, he thought, but the lie was a weight, his guilt a coiling heat. Carol stepped forward, her small frame steady, her eyes soft but firm, her hair catching the morning light, smelling faintly of soap.
"I believe him," she said, her voice quiet, unyielding, her Southern lilt warm. "He helped Sophia, brought us food, saved Amy." Her gaze met Elias's, gratitude a spark, a memory flashing—her daughter's smile, kindled by Elias's joke days ago, the air light with hope. "He's not lying."
Elias's stomach clenched, her trust a blade, cutting deep. I'm a fraud, he thought, a memory of his mother's faith in him flashing, her eyes warm. "Thanks, Carol," he said, his voice soft, his nod slight, his fingers twitching.
[SYSTEM: Carol trust +10%. Playing hero's costly. Keep it up, saint.]
The camp stirred, murmurs rising, the lie sinking in. Later, Rick approached, his boots crunching gravel, his hand clapping Elias's shoulder, a gesture warm but probing, his eyes sharp, his breath smelling faintly of coffee. "Your knack," he said, his voice low, rumbling. "It's something else, Elias. Never seen anything like it."
Elias forced a wry smile, his heart pounding, his fingers relentless. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice light, deflecting. "Back home, they called me 'Lucky Elias.' Always found the last beer." Keep it light, he thought, a memory of joking with friends flashing, the air warm with laughter.
Rick chuckled, a tired, genuine sound, his eyes softening. "Good thing to have now," he said, his voice warm, his trust a steady current. "Real good thing."
Elias nodded, relief flooding him, the lie a fragile bridge. He trusts me, he thought, his fingers slowing, the tic fading for a moment. The camp's hope was a fire he'd stoked, but the cost was a heavy conscience, Shane's paranoia a storm cloud, Dale's suspicion a shadow. I'm in deep, he thought, the air heavy with earth and smoke, his secrets a weight he carried into an uncertain dawn.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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