In Dreams (13/16)
For notes and disclaimer, please see part one. Extra squeezie hugs for bigbadjayne. Love you, brother.
Previously, on the Walking Dead-Carol does laundry, Daryl hunts… and a walker lurks in the distance.
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Eye of the Storm
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She wasn’t sure how she found the strength to look back, where Daryl’s crossbow pointed, but when she glanced over, she saw the emaciated figure, its dislocated jaw hanging slightly to the left of where it should’ve been; its hands and feet, bare and bony. The guttural hiss sounded hungry and menacing.
She would never, ever, get used to seeing walkers. In the face of every one she’d seen since Sophia, she recognized that, under the decaying skin, milky eyes, and graying teeth, some person was tortured. Had they been consumed with fear before the bite? Had they cried out to heaven for someone to save them? Did they die trying to protect their loved ones? Did they go blissfully in their sleep, unaware of the dangers that hulked over them? Was she next? If not her, then who?
Just as suddenly as it had appeared, it dropped to the ground with an arrow sunk deeply into its skull.
When the walker fell, Daryl saw Carol jump, startled. “Can’t hurt you now,” he told her.
Her nod in return was jerky as she attempted to return her attention to the laundry. Her hands shook, not just from the cold, as she hung one of Carl’s tee shirts.
Daryl watched her for a moment. He knew the adrenaline would peter out eventually, that she just needed to work through it. Maybe it would help her finish the laundry faster, not that he could make the wind blow any stronger, or the sun shine any brighter to attempt to speed the drying process. They’d have to do the best they could, and head back after lunch to make it to the camp before dark. “Gonna go across the stream, make sure it’s done.”
She looked at him, a panic clear in her eyes, but she wordlessly nodded.
He started to take a step toward the water, but stopped. “You see anything, you holler, okay?”
With her trembling fingers, she removed one of her shirts from the backpack, nodding again.
He leaned in ever so slightly toward her. “Gotta use your voice, so I know you can holler if the need be.” His tone was softer, holding an inkling of understanding that it was incredibly difficult for her in this new reality.
Her voice quivered only slightly. “I can holler, Daryl; I promise.”
Nodding, he set about crossing the water. On any other day, under any other circumstance, it would be a peaceful place. He could imagine picture-perfect families coming by the banks for a picnic in the middle of summertime, doing whatever families like that did. Fireworks or games maybe. He really didn’t know. It didn’t matter anymore. Everything was corrupted. Even a task like laundry became an excerpt from a horror movie.
The walker wore a park ranger uniform, complete with radio and knife attached to its belt. Once Daryl removed the arrow, wiping the gooey remnants on the walker’s pants leg, he requisitioned the gear. They were going to need to do better if a herd ever descended again. While they’d been lucky to decide what the others would probably do, it would be better to know exactly what needed to be done. They needed to decide which direction to go if the unthinkable occurred. If they had a plan, they wouldn’t need it. But, not having one… they’d desperately needed it. Maybe if they could find the rest of the walkie-talkies at some ranger station, they could use them under the direst of circumstances, saving the batteries for when they needed it most.
With his new supplies, he looked across the water again to Carol, who was scrubbing ferociously at another shirt, one that looked like it might’ve been Rick’s. Her attention was scattered as her eyes flitted about, to her right and left, over her shoulder, across the brook. It was as though she was going through the motions of laundry, but whether or not that shirt needed that thorough of a washing, he couldn’t be sure.
She stilled instantly when she realized she was being watched. She couldn’t quite make out Daryl’s expression. He had such a good poker face; she imagined it was all by design. While he could be a member of the group, he still had his many secrets. So much didn’t matter. Outstanding warrants were a thing of the past. Background checks were obsolete. The ability to survive and provide helpful services to the group was the only necessity, and he excelled at that.
He’d started to take a step to the banks, to cross back to her side of the stream, when he saw her face drain of all color a second time. She let go of the shirt and it coasted quickly downstream as she got to her feet. He realized that she wasn’t looking at him but past him.
“W-walkers!” she cried.
Spinning on his heel, he tried to retrieve his crossbow from his back but was unable to, finding himself surrounded by a small pack of three-another in a ranger uniform, the other two in tourist garb, including one with a smashed digital camera around its neck. He realized that maybe there was something to be said of using the adrenaline that came from walker attacks. He’d become desensitized to it, had allowed his guard to drop the moment he had dropped the first walker. Of course it wouldn’t be an isolated incident, not after a week with no movement whatsoever from the dead.
The worst was never over. The peace that traditionally followed even the worst of nature’s fury would never descend over them. They could only cling to the hope of the peaceful eyes of the storm, giving them pause enough to catch their breath before they had to prepare for the coming onslaught.
He brandished his new knife. “Who’s first?” he sneered.
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Stay tuned…