thirty six. the cost of devotion

thirty six˚༺⋆♱⋆༻˚↳ the cost of devotion ↲

warning: implied suicide (not graphic)

skip to the authors note for a summary if this topic will affect you negatively.

A MONTH CAME AND WENT LIKE A QUIET BREATH, the days shedding away with the fawn-colored leaves of autumn. The bare branches above the streets sprawled out like an intricately spun web—a reminder that not all rot was corruption.

I sat on the last porch step, the air biting at my fingertips as I turned a page of the novel Enid had passed on to me: Frankenstein, 1818.

I'd expected a story of horror, but instead found tragedy—devastatingly romantic in a way that made me never want to pick it up again once I was finished.

I'd folded an ear on one particular page amongst the seventeenth chapter with a quote that reflected my perspective perfectly:

"It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another."

The Creature begs Victor Frankenstein, the scientist, to create a companion in hopes to no longer to be the only of his kind. He wishes only for a partner in everlasting survival. Someone to make him forget his wretchedness.

One was an abomination; but two, perhaps, could become something more. They could find solace in exile. Exist in a place where they were known not for their sin. Live free of the names the world had given them.

Victor initially agrees, until the fear of the potential consequences devour him. He destroys his creation before it's finished, leaving the Creature furious, vengeful, and utterly alone.

My chin raised from its resting point against the thick scarf wrapped around my neck. My eyes lifted to the sky at the distant sound of a flock overhead. It seemed they were deciding it was time to find someplace warmer.

This made me envious that we couldn't spread our wings and find a spot closer to the sun. We would stay here, and the seasons would just have to run their course on us.

"Te-ah!" Judith called out from a few feet away.

This was the only thing she could call me. Cynthia was too long. Cyn was utterly impossible for a child as little as her to say. But Thia—that was somewhat tangible with her few teeth, just as it'd once been for Allie.

Judith stood in the lawn, legs wide and arms out in an attempt to balance herself. She took a wobbly step toward me, her smile widening as she lifted a ruby-colored leaf. Her cheeks were nearly the same color, but there wasn't a chance she was cold. I'd layered her with nearly half the items in her closet.

She looked like a tiny caterpillar all tucked away in its cocoon.

"How beautiful, Judy!" I remarked, closing the book and placing it on the step above.

I joined her side, crouching low to pick apart the bright leaves from the wrinkled ones drained of any color. She plopped down beside me, tiny fingers rustling against the crunchy remnants of the tree. I showed her a bright yellow one in the familiar shape of a heart, watching contentedly as her face lit up.

I brushed the pointed end along the slope of her nose, and she swatted at the thing with both hands, her belly moving with laughter.

After nearly fifteen minutes of playing, I noted the small swivel of Judith's head. She was looking at our home, huffing from the brisk walking she'd done whilst trying not to let me catch her. Her arm went up, finger directed at one of the upstairs windows before speaking.

"Buba."

My head snapped up. I instantly understood it was Carl's room that she wanted me to see. But she wasn't just associating those panes with her brother. She was pointing directly at him.

He was standing on the other side of the glass, arms folded across his torso. He wore a plain white shirt, and a brown belt that secured a pair of slightly oversized denim pants. No hat today. Just his eyepatch of gauze.

He'd lost weight, initially. But it was back now, filling out parts of him that reminded me he was not just a boy—but a man in becoming.

Carl didn't smile at us, but that wasn't expected of him. He hadn't done so in a while.

Things had been different.

The first week home, he'd regularly woken the entire house with his screams. I could still remember that night back after Denise and I cleared him from the infirmary. The way I'd jolted up at the shouts. Ran across the hall in a panic, throwing his door open so forcefully that it instantly pulled him from the nightmare I wasn't even aware he was having.

Most nights, he'd refused to talk about what he dreamt. However, there were a couple instances where I'd picked up on enough sleep-talk to know what they'd been. A few times, it was about the road before Terminus, where those men had pulled us from the vehicle.

His cries made me think he was recounting a version where we hadn't been spared.

Other nights, it sounded like he was experiencing the wall collapse from my point of view, our roles reversed. Stumbling through the dead in search of me, only to watch Ron shoot a round into my face. Those were the ones he seemed the most distressed by.

It got better, slowly. At least, this was what the ones who didn't share a hall with him thought. The yelling might have stopped—but the cries never did. Every night, they slithered beneath the gap in my door, haunting my room.

After one night of entering his room to try and console his sobbing, he'd since kept his door locked. I wasn't sure if he simply wanted to be left alone while he slept, or if there was another reason. Perhaps he didn't like the vulnerability of it; me seeing him in that state.

It didn't stop me from sitting up in my chair each night, a book in hand as I worried he might call for me. But he never spoke my name into the hallway, and I never left that seat, often waking at unnatural times to the frightening clatter of my book against the floor.

And his wound—he wouldn't let me see it, even when others reminded him that I was the only one who could best treat him given my little experience at Grady. This didn't matter, though. He accepted all forms of help, apart from mine.

After learning I'd been the one to sew him up, he was silent for the rest of the day. It took him nearly three to properly look me in the face.

Michonne and Rick typically changed his dressings, discreetly reporting any changes after they finished. Carl went to Denise for preventive antibiotics and physical therapy, but she wasn't sure how to assess the trauma itself, or its progress.

This didn't mean he wasn't kind. Because he was. He made such an effort to be—almost if he thought it was the only redeeming quality he had left.

He typically got up when the fog was still out, its ghastly shapes swirling about in the morning air. He would go for long walks as Denise suggested, retraining his visual offset and spatial awareness. When he returned, he would almost always leave something at my door for me to discover when I woke. The surviving flowers of summer, dried leaves and pretty pinecones, or even one of the apples growing in front of what used to be the Anderson's home.

Almost always—just not today.

Judith giggled, bringing my thoughts back to the moment in front of me.

The corners of my mouth lifted at her enthusiasm. "Is that your big brother?"

She pointed again. I pulled her close, guiding her arm back and forth to help her wave at him. Carl's arms uncrossed, dropping at his sides. He paused for a moment before returning the gesture.

And although he stood far and high above, I still caught the tilt of his head—the uneasy grind of his jaw, like there was an undeniable pressure in his skull—and the way his hand came up against the wound, as if to console it.

I wondered if it was a migraine. He got plenty of those now. His remaining eye regularly strained to compensate for the loss of vision in the other, the ache against his temple sometimes keeping him in bed the entirety of the day.

Perhaps he hadn't gone on a walk earlier at all.

The front door opened, grabbing both the child and I's attention. Michonne came out onto the porch, bare foot, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She was hit with a shiver, her hands extending from the sleeves of her sweater to rub warmth into her palms.

"Breakfast is ready." She spoke, her mouth curving at the site of us playing in the leaves. "And it's hot."

This piqued my interest as I stood, lifting Judith against my hip. "No cereal today?"

My eyes briefly flicked back towards Carl's window before I brought us up the steps, grabbing my novel along the way.

The curtains were drawn tight.

"Nope." She responded, wiggling her brows as she held the door for us. "I made something."

Upon entering, the warmth within met me, coiling inside my body tenderly. The scent of sweet maple and ground cinnamon seemed to be stained against the walls, further enticing me into the kitchen.

The dining table was set, six plates in total. In the center sat a serving bowl of fruits. Figs, apples, and pears. All harvested from within the walls. Each one of us were given two pieces of French toast, a small ration of butter, and syrup to go along with.

Judith's food had been cut up into pieces. As I placed her in her high chair, I said a silent prayer she wouldn't throw food today. Meals like this were hard to come by, but even harder to watch be wasted.

Michonne took a seat as multiple sets of steps entered through the garage.

"What's the occasion?" I asked, pulling out my chair.

Judith was already taken by the food. I watched her fist close around a square of the bread, letting go of my breath as the small item made it into her mouth. Rick turned the corner. He greeted his daughter with a loving pat on the head before offering a pleasant smile to Michonne and I.

Then came Daryl, looking at all the items with silent approval before taking a seat beside me.

"I think we deserved something nice." The woman responded.

Rick sat down and adjusted the watch on his wrist. I wondered to myself if it worked, or if the hands were frozen on a particular time. If not yet, they likely would be, someday. All mechanisms seemed to eventually fail.

"Building back what we lost has been hard. We have to remind ourselves of what we still have." Carl's father added.

I nodded in agreement, looking to the empty seat across from me. Rick seemed to notice his absence, too, rising from his seat promptly.

"An' what do we have?" Daryl grumbled, tossing a look towards Michonne. "Sugar toast?"

Rick snickered, taking a step towards the stairs. "Each other. We have each other."

As Michonne and Daryl bickered back and forth, I took the opportunity to pick from the fruits first. While plating them, I quietly listened to the woman as she said something about Daryl being a madman eating squirrels. I hungrily cut into my toast and took a bite.

"Carl, come on down. Foods ready." Rick called up, placing his hand on the railing.

I indulged in one of the figs, the jammy fruit reminding me of our time on the road. I thought about that sacred green forest full of fruit trees—the one no more than fifteen miles from Gabriel's church. My fruit-stained lips, and Carl and I's boots watching from the bank as we waded deep into the creek. The cold splashes, and our laughter echoing throughout the air, long after we had dried off.

We would never be kids again, and nothing would ever be that simple. Something about this thought made me wish to eat from the fruits of those trees just once more.

Rick returned, cleaning up one of the pears Judith had launched across the room as he made way back to his seat.

"Is Carl not coming?" I asked, swirling a piece of toast in the sticky syrup.

Michonne and Daryl stopped their conversation, both looking toward the staircase now.

Rick broke a few apple slices apart and put them on Judith's plate. "Sounds like he's still asleep. Didn't wanna go up there and chance waking him."

I lifted the piece to my mouth, swallowing before speaking, "But I saw him, in the window."

Michonne looked at Rick before putting her fork down. "I'll check on him."

"It's okay," I wiped my mouth before standing. "I'll go up. He might just be reading comics—but if he's sleeping, he'll forgive me the quickest."

A statement that I once would've never believed to be true. As the table exchanged knowing nods and agreeable smiles, I thought back to the moment the boy and I first met.

I could still remember the scent of gunpowder in the air. The blood, too. Dying fires were licking grey lines up the walls of their sanctuary, and Carl's shotgun had been aimed between my eyes. The expression on his face warned he was fighting every urge from within not to pull that trigger.

I gently knocked against his door.

Silence followed, but not the kind that made me believe he was truly asleep. It was a different type of quiet. One that made me wonder if he just didn't want to respond to whoever it might've been.

I brought my fist against it with more force this time. "Carl?"

"Hm?" He hummed in question.

I lowered my hand. "We're having breakfast. Will you join us?"

"I don't feel well." He spoke, his voice hardly audible from beyond the door. "Think I might stay in bed today."

The hardwood bit at the soles of my feet, the temperature significantly lower upstairs. I could hear the laughter from the kitchen, but it seemed only a distant memory from above. The blinds were tightly pulled shut, allowing little clearance for any external light in the hallway.

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Is it your head?"

There was a long pause.

"Not really," His sheets rustled as if he were propping himself up, "something just feels. . . wrong, and I don't know what."

I shifted, pressing my shoulder into the wall. The side of my head rested against the frame, my gaze settling on the gap between his door. I expected a soft orange glow to be seeping through the crack, but there was nothing.

His room was filled with a blackness I feared I couldn't fix.

My insides twisted, fingers grazing against the doorknob. "Will you let me in?"

A spring popped from beneath his mattress, but not a single footstep followed.

"No," He spoke softly, "my bandage isn't on."

My hand dropped. "Carl—I've seen it bef—"

"Once is enough."

I let go of the air burning at the top of my throat, releasing it carefully as if I were standing in front of something untamed.

But, it didn't matter anymore. I'd already frightened him away.

For how long? There was no way of knowing.

"Okay." I stepped back, turning away. "I'm sorry for bothering you."

I then started back toward the staircase. Before my third step, I looked to my room across the way and wished I could crawl beneath the covers and rot on the mattress until I became part of it.

I had halfway decided to do just that when I heard a quiet Fuck murmured from Carl's bedroom. Shadows appeared against the walls as his lamp flicked on, quickened steps against the floor before his lock clicked. 

I felt my throat close up. Wonderful. Not only was I unwelcome—I was clearly entirely prohibited from his space.

"Cynthia." His voice met my back, causing me to twist.

Oh.

He stood in front of his room, the door pushed wide. His hand cupped the right side of his face, but his five fingers couldn't hide everything. I could still see the pink scarring, the edges raised and leathery like a burn wound.

I looked past him, into his dully lit room. I couldn't help but instantly note the mirror against his closet covered with a thin white sheet. The glass pictures on his bedside table were placed face-down—along with anything else even remotely reflective.

"Please come back." He urged. "I didn't mean to be like that.

I hesitated a moment before approaching him. When I was close enough, he stepped aside, a request for me to enter. His hand briefly found my hair as I made my way past, the strand sliding between his careful fingers. He closed the door behind himself. Came to the foot of his bed and sat on the edge, patting an empty space beside him.

I followed his silent command.

It was quiet for a few breaths. Then, he began speaking.

"In the third grade, I had this friend, Hudson. He lived across the street. He was a really nice kid. Funny, and thoughtful. Not many boys our age were, but he was."

"The kids at school never included him. He had this. . .disfigured face. Apparently, he'd been mauled by a dog as a baby, and nearly died. He couldn't remember the details, but the evidence took up an entire side of his face."

I bit anxiously at one of my nails.

Carl continued, "He had all these scars. Divots in his skin, teeth marks everywhere, and his nose looked wrong, like the doctors had tried, and failed, to put him back together. I thought he looked cool, like a character out of one of my comics, but others didn't. Mostly girls. They used to leave notes in his pencil case calling him puzzle face. If anyone ever spoke about Hudson, they always called him it, like he wasn't a person."

His voice got tight, like speaking was becoming progressively harder.

"He always laughed it off. So, I didn't understand what was happening that morning the firetrucks were parked in front of his house. My dad was there too, in their driveway, but mom wouldn't tell me what had happened. She just sat in her room and cried until it was time to take me to school. That's where I learned what he'd done."

My fingers dug into the bed as I fought the welling in my eyes. "That's awful, Carl. I'm so incredibly sorry."

Carl only shrugged, but I could tell how deeply it hurt to recall the memory.

"I used to lie awake, wondering why. I could never reach that point of understanding. But now—now I do." He admitted, pressing four fingers above his wound, as if to relive pressure.

My brows knit together. "Don't talk like that."

"My face—only a mother could love it." He responded, his head tilting so that he could drop his hand without being seen. "And mine is dead."

I placed my hands in my lap, my knuckles tensing white.

"You're wrong," I spoke.

He let out a long, slow exhale. "You might think so now. But it's only a matter of time until you become afraid of it. Just like I have."

I looked back to the cover on his mirror.

It suddenly made sense.

I wished it didn't.

"The way I feel about you has little to do with your face." I told him, my hand laying on top of his. "It's only a plus. And it still is, Carl. You said it yourself—you thought that boy looked one-of-a-kind. Why can't I think the same of you?"

I stood, lifting my shirt just enough to show the mangled scar where I'd been impaled. It still looked furious—partially purple—like it'd been holding its breath as punishment. The twisted line was raised outward as if something lived deep beneath the surface. I briefly turned to show the mirrored image along my back.

He was facing me, looking straight at the painful curve. It was still too dim to get a good look at him. What his hair didn't cover of his eye, simply looked to be a deep abyss in this lighting.

"Does it frighten you?" I asked.

He swallowed slowly and shook his head.

"This—" I lifted his hand, guiding his finger across the healing skin, "—is just a big 'fuck you'. It's evidence that death tried its hardest to take me, and failed."

I let go. His touch remained a moment longer, his fingertips softly brushing against my hip. Only a second later, he was helping reposition my shirt, his hand lowering to a still on his leg.

"Mine doesn't look like that." He commented.

I nodded. "Yours is much cooler."

For the first time in weeks, Carl let himself smile.

His jaw tensed, another flicker of pain coming across his features, the smile gone before I could admire it. But the duration of it didn't matter. He had already showed me that he wasn't truly gone.

"Let me see." I pleaded with him. "If it feels wrong, I have to make sure it's okay."

His head dropped to the mattress. His shoulders were tense, his spine completely straight. A struggled shudder escaped him before he brought his chin up once, then down.

An unspoken go-ahead.

I came to the curtains, slowly pulling them apart. Daylight instantly poured into the room, spilling across every surface like the pale sap of a cracked milkweed stem. It devoured the darkness and left not a single shadow in its wake, reminding me of the way my father used to explain the result of prayer.

I approached him with patience, the sun warm against my back. Standing between his legs, my fingers came beneath his chin. When he finally gained the courage, he lifted his head entirely on his own, my touch a mere effort of reassurance.

I brushed his hair back, careful in my expression. I'd seen it not just once, but many times in the infirmary, unbeknownst to him. Each line of scarring had already been memorized in my mind. The dip past his socket was beginning to mend together and web, the skin so deeply red that it appeared almost black.

Something was different, though. There was a slickness against the wound, one that glimmered as my shadow moved across him. Red had painted itself on the oval rim, the surrounding skin hot and inflamed.

I thought of those figs again. Remembered the one that had gone rotten in the hot Georgia heat, the dark colored seeds and fleshy outer-later splattered across his chest in playful roughhousing.

That was the only comparison I could make to the injury in front of me.

"Is everything okay?" He asked, his remaining eye looking to mine for comfort.

He obviously hadn't looked at it for himself. I wondered if that's what he meant to do when he'd taken off his eyepatch—never able to work up to the actual task.

It was better that way.

I couldn't bring myself to lie, so I instead put on my best closed-lip smile. "Denise said she prescribed you antibiotics—do you feel like they've been helping, or making this more painful?"

He pushed the hair from his face. "They helped a lot when I got them through an IV. But, once I switched to the pills, it started hurting."

We'd already given him a full course of the IV antibiotic, so I highly doubted the infection stemmed from under-treatment. I'd done enough research at this point to consider that the bacteria in his eye had become partially resistant to the oral antibiotic itself.

In that case, we would need to start him back up on IV antibiotics—preferably one we hadn't yet tried. But after working at the infirmary every other day, I'd memorized the medicine cabinet. I knew we had nothing beneficial left to offer him.

"Is something wrong?" He breathed out.

"It's infected." I admitted carefully, immediately following with, "but with the limited resources we had, it was almost inevitable."

Carl shifted. "Will it be alright?"

Unrolling the fresh bandage I'd picked up from his nightstand, I nodded. "Of course it will. I'm sure we'll have a fix by tonight. Just give me some time to talk it over with Denise."

When I was finished wrapping him, he took my hand in his. Bringing my knuckles his lips, he whispered tired, but heartfelt, gratitude.

It was obvious he'd been up in pain the night before. The darkness beneath his left eye showed this much. I gave his hand a soft squeeze before our grasp slipped, my steps slowly drawing back.

"Try and get some rest." I spoke, pulling his curtain shut before opening the door.

He bade me farewell, and I was gone.

▬ ▬ ▬

"Don't," Daryl pleaded, "don't. Please don't."

I watched from the backseat as Rick glanced his way, the silver metallic disc engulfed by the CD player. The radio instantly crackled to life, a tune starting before he began snapping his fingers to the beat.

Now, give me the downbeat meastroI wanna lay it on the line

'Cause eveything I doI wanna do it in double time

Daryl stared at Rick, disappointment woven throughout his expression.

He only tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in response. "Draws 'em away from home."

When I take a ride in my carI let 'er rollHear me, I said I let 'er roll

The back road we took was bare, a valley of power lines our only company. I briefly thought about rolling down my window to listen to the hum of the wires, before remembering they had long since burned out, leaving nothing but a silent perch for winged creatures.

We'd been moving for about an hour, slowly pushing further into the countryside. Through the dusted glass, crops of corn blurred past. The harvest was entirely underwhelming, stalks bowing low against tall, parasitic weeds.

My heart instinctively dipped at the sight of a body amongst the field. It was suspended high, arms out wide—like the pictures I'd memorized regarding the crucification of Jesus.

I thought it only to be a scarecrow, a sack stuffed with straw—until it was directly within my line of sight.

The bird pecking at its face took flight at the sound of our wheels against gravel, quickly unveiling the corpse: pale, greyed skin, and both eyes completely eaten away by nature. Slits in the sides of its mouth to give the illusion of a smile, very clearly done by the work of a blade.

It wore a white shirt, three sloppy words inked into the fabric.

He Sees All

It brought me back to those early weekend mornings, the sunlight filtering through the colored glass as Allie, Mom, and I sat along the pews in our Sunday best.

The bible on my lap burning a hole through my long skirt, branding me with words I couldn't yet comprehend. Certainly not when they came from my father's mouth.

And though I'd claimed to have forgotten all the scriptures he once taught, there was now a specific verse which had found its way through the depths of my memory.

Hebrews 4:13

"Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account."

The songs next verse began as we drove out of sight.

Well, a chick who's gonna move meWell, she must be gay and sweetTwo arms just made for lovin'And lotsa rhythm in her feet

My head snapped to the front. Neither Rick nor Daryl seemed to have caught the unnerving scene that was now tucked far into the field of yellow and brown. But Daryl caught my movement in the review mirror, turning to look at me.

He squinted as if he were trying to tune out the music. "You sure you'll fin' what you need at this animal clinic?"

Immediately after going downstairs, I'd informed the table of Carl's infection. Rick and Daryl had already been planning a run for grain and supplies, so naturally, I'd insisted on coming along to help them find the correct medication for Carl.

They had few arguments, being that I'd already proved to know what I was doing. I carried quite a bit of humility—but it was no secret to them that Carl was alive, partially because of me.

We'd already tried the hospital pharmacy, even searching the ambulance parked outside the emergency entrance. The three of us had also searched a moblie clinic in front of the elementary school only miles from our safe zone.

But, to no avail, all antibiotics were wiped clean.

I nodded. "I read about it in one of our textbooks. Veterinary hospitals carry Unasyn, too. The dosage will be different, but, Denise and I will figure that part out."

"It's smart," Rick said, "Maggie's father was a Veterinarian—suggested the same thing when we had an outbreak of the flu at the prison."

I thought about Michonne's sword swinging into the older man's neck. Wondered if his head still lay in the same spot on the grass, or if somehow, the soil had swallowed him whole and he'd become food for the worms below.

I quickly pushed the devastating memory away.

"Sorghum." Daryl read aloud, pointing out the window. "Ain't that what Eugene was talkin' about?"

I followed the path of his index finger. Sure enough, a farm was to the right—down the opposite end we'd just begun turning. Large painted letters on the roof solidified the presence of the specific grain.

Rick hit the brakes.

The car sat in the middle of the small intersection before it reversed. After looping us around, Rick pressed his boot further into the pedal, spitting up dust behind us as we advanced towards the supply barn.

In less than twenty seconds, our tires met the loosened gravel of the driveway. The rocks beneath us clacked and popped as we pulled to a stop in front of the roll up garage door. It was titled with the words: Windy Farm Sorghum.

I unholstered the pistol that'd been uncomfortably digging into my hipbone for the entirety of the drive. I then stepped out of the beaten-down black Chrysler after the two men, my weapon gripped in my dominant hand, eyes scanning our surroundings.

To the left of us, a pasture stretched outward for many miles. Only a few feet beyond the wooden fencing, something dark lay amongst the overgrown grass. Its stench hit me quickly, making me aware of the fact that whatever it was, had been dead for a long while.

The field was once a roaming ground for cattle. The water troughs and salt licks in the distance told me this much. The carcass itself was too small to be that of to heifer, though, it was very possible it belonged to one of their calves.

As Rick and Daryl cleared the front of the building, I approached the fence, my boots finding the lowest plank. Pulling myself up, I leaned over the splitting wood to get a better look at the thing.

Its body was curled, legs folded underneath itself. I could now be sure it was a calf, three-fourths rotten. A swarm of flies spun around it wildly. The head was tucked unnaturally towards the earth, as if pressing its ear to the grass, listening to the soft swish of its secrets.

Before lowering myself, my eyes stopped on a large lump against its neck. I first thought it to be a tumor—the reason of its perishing—before coming onto the tips of my soles.

Footsteps sounded from behind, drawing my attention backward. The barn's rolling door was suspended high, revealing a large supply truck. Rick was rummaging through the back of it. Daryl was only a few feet away from me.

"Okay?" He asked, looking me over once.

I stepped off the fence. "Yeah, I'm alright."

"That truck s' loaded with supplies. We're gonna' take it and come back for the car later." He informed me.

I nodded.

He now stood beside me, resting his elbows along the fence. His eyes seemed to catch the very same animal I'd been examining. Either the smell had given it away, or the sound of the persistent flies.

"What's that?"

I adjusted my jacket—the brown leather one that I'd taken from that house, before finding Terminus.

"A two-headed calf." I remarked.

It was a freak-of-nature. Something meant to be made into taxidermy, sold for no more than twenty-bucks in an antique shop that smelled of mildew.

Though, it was beautiful, and I felt deeply sorry for the thing. It was likely rejected by all of its kind as soon as its slick body hit the grass. Unclaimed, and unfamiliar with love.

I hoped that death was kinder.

"Hm." He mumbled out. "Didn't know those were real."

The wind hissed through the weeds like a rattlesnake preparing to strike.

"Neither did I."

▬ ▬ ▬

I slung my empty pack over my shoulder, looking at the faded blue letters across the sign in front of us.

"Broken Spur Animal Hospital?" Daryl questioned. "W'kind of hillbilly made that name?"

We stood a few paces behind Rick, who was knocking his fist against the entrance in an attempt to attract any of the dead inside. There seemed to be no movement beyond the door.

I looked Daryl's way. "One who stored lots of drugs here, let's hope?"

We needed more medication for the infirmary. Before leaving, Denise and I had made a list of prescriptions to look out for. Apart from Carl and our few other recurring patients, we thought of Maggie, and all the scenarios where treatment would be necessary.

Oxytocin to induce labor, or stop postpartum hemorrhaging. Lidocaine to numb before an incision. Hydralazine in the case of Eclampsia.

"Cover me." Rick instructed, his hand falling to the door handle.

Daryl and I raised our guns now, coming behind him on either side. He gave us a quick nod before raising his blade, then swung the door halfway.

After quick surveillance, my finger left the trigger. We were faced with nothing but a pristine lobby upon entering, a sign that I'd been right about coming here.

"How do you wanna' do this, Cyn?" Rick spoke lowly.

The front desk sat between two branching hallways. The building itself was fairly small, and we'd circled the entire thing beforehand. I guessed it would take no more than ten minutes to be in and out.

"One of you can stay up here and keep watch," I whispered, my gun still raised at the dark hallway ahead, "the other comes with me and clears the rooms while I sort through the pharmacy."

Daryl spared a glance at Rick. Rick only motioned his chin forward in silent approval, moving forward to toss him the set of keys hooked on the wall.

The scruffy man and I continued, his flashlight clicking on to illuminate the path ahead. He walked in front, biting the object between his teeth to keep his hands steady against the weapon. I followed behind, paying close attention to the rooms we passed. Each door was closed, nothing but silence standing beyond it.

There were few things that remained untouched these days. Finding a mundane place where death could not reach was almost therapeutic, in a way.

After only a minute of cautiously moving, Daryl softly cleared his throat, lifting his chin in signal. His light beamed onto one of the engraved door labels, the shiny metal harshly reflecting back into my eyes before I stepped closer to examine it.

Pharmacy.

I reached for the handle, pushing down. It didn't budge—no surprise there—prompting Daryl to hand me the key ring. Quiet jingling echoed through the empty hallways as I flipped through each option, stopping on a shiny golden one labeled 'P' with permanent marker.

I brought the key into the lock, turning it, slowly. When it released a click, I readied the gun in my opposite hand, placing the barrel against the door. I gave it a push, raising the weapon eye-level while the barrier swung wide.

We waited. Nothing came forward.

"Here," Daryl spoke, passing me the flashlight.

The realization that it'd just been in his mouth only came after I'd already grabbed hold of it. My face scrunched in repulsion at the thought before continuing through the door.

The room was in perfect condition—smelling sharp, bitter, and artificial, as if something plastic had melted deep into the ceiling. The shelves were stocked full with hundreds of different items. Amber pill containers, plastic tubs, glass bottles with droppers, vials, and tubes of topical cream.

All untouched.

A short whistle came from Daryl. "Nice find, kid."

"Thanks." I let the bag slip from my arm, putting my pistol in the side pocket before approaching the first shelf. "Will you collect supplies from the other rooms while I grab what I need here?"

He nodded, then turned to leave. Before he passed the doorway, he paused in his tracks.

"What'm I lookin' for again?"

I picked up one of the boxes, flipping over it to read the fine-print words. Nitenpyram—treatment for flea infestations. I placed it back in its spot, thoughtless to the absence of dust lining the surface.

"IV supplies." I told him, picking up a pill bottle. "Tubing, catheters, syringes, prep pads, and gauze."

"Anythin' else?" He asked, adjusting his jacket.

The angel wings were beggining to fade with time. Turning a softened beige, the threads loose and twisting to mimic true feathers.

"Tape, if you can find it. Bandages, gloves, and any form of disinfectant you can get your hands on."

The corners of his mouth lifted. "Got it. Holler if you need anything."

I thanked him, and he was gone, leaving me to scavenge through the medications on my own. I placed my bag on the floor, pulling the zipper open. After finding the crumpled list of complex names, I set the flashlight on the shelf behind me, letting the bright-white fold around me like a spotlight.

I continued on, sorting through the bottles and boxes eye-level with me. Rimadyl for oral use in dogs. Xylazine—a sedative—with a label clearly stating its intended use for horses and deer only. Bute, and small chewable heartworm tablets.

After a moment of contemplation, I carefully placed a vial of the sedative in my pack's front pocket. It was horse tranquilizer—something I certainly wouldn't risk putting with the other bottles in the infirmary. It was dangerous in our clinic at Alexandria, but even deadlier as a weapon.

God help the person who might force me into using it.

An impact sounded out from beyond, as if two bodies had collided. Hushed voices followed, unintelligible from the room I stood within.

I came to the door, my body only halfway through the threshold. Squinting into the hallway, I watched as Daryl hurried from one of the close-by treatment rooms. His head whipped towards the beginning of the hallway before he turned to look directly at me.

"What was that?" I whispered.

"Sounded like Rick." He drew his weapon now. "Stay ri'there."

I retreated back into the room, taking the flashlight into my hands before crouching low. After twisting the light onto its lowest setting out of caution, I began examining the bottom few shelves, stuffing any familiar prescription into my bag.

I feared we were running out of time. Perhaps there had been dead on the other side of the long circular hallway, or they'd gotten inside some other way.

My eyes fixed on a box of ampules, skimming the enlarged words at the top. My heart pattered heavy in my chest. Hydralazine. Nearby it, Oxytocin. I took multiples of each and placed them gently into my bag before moving on.

The next shelf was stocked with many of the miscellaneous pharmaceuticals Denise and I had put on the list. Gentle clinking of abundance came from my bag as I searched the row with a small plaque reading 'antibiotics'.

It only took a minute or two before I spotted Carl's treatment amongst the numerous other options. I held the bottles tight, the cold glass stinging into my palms as I transferred four of them into the back compartment of my pack.

I was just about to stand when I heard it. A mechanical click. Like a clock, made just for me, ticking away my very last second.

"Put that down. Now."

My spine straightened at the hoarse voice from behind. I put my left hand into the air in unarticulated surrender, using my other to place the small box onto the floor. I reflexively reached for the blade at my hip, fingers pausing against denim as a Tsk sounded from him.

A warning not to try anything.

I placed my other hand in the air now.

"Good," the unknown voice spoke, "now stand, and turn, slowly."

I did as they said, my knees straining as I gained height. I faced the man, now, quickly studying him. A tan face, full of dark spots—proof of his life beneath the sun. Dark reflective eyes full of a haunting vacancy.

It reminded me of one of the members in our congregation. He sat in the back row, closest to the doors. Always the first to arrive, and always the first to leave. People whispered about his time in Vietnam, though he never spoke of it. Each Sunday, he would place a twenty-dollar bill onto the offering plate and whisper a quiet plea for the Lord to forgive him for his sins.

This man had that same look in his eyes.

"Please," I spoke softly, "I don't want any trouble."

He took a step towards me, the barrel of his gun catching the artificial light. "You should expect trouble when you break through someone's property."

I swallowed harshly. "I'm sorry, sir. Not much belongs to anyone, anymore."

"That belongs to me," he tilted his chin at the item I'd placed on the floor, per request, "so does everything in your bag."

My flashlight flickered on the floor.

"We have sick people." I told him, hoping for an ounce of sympathy. "This medicine will save them. Without it—I don't know what'll happen."

"No." He told me sternly.

My shoulders dropped. "I'll give everything back, then. Just. . .please, let me keep the Unasyn. I beg you."

He slid his finger over the trigger. "Slide it all over before I shoot. Don't make me splatter you against the floor."

Something in me told me that he wouldn't do it. But I wouldn't bargain. Not with a bullet path lined to my temple. So I knelt beside my pack in submission.

"What did you do to the other men?" I asked, slowly zipping it closed.

The man seemed off-centered by this question, immediately letting me know that he knew not of any other intruders. I took this heartbeat of a second to wrap my hands around the grip of my pistol in the water-bottle slot, whipping it out and aligning it with his skull.

He caught this movement too late. An oozing hole was already drilled between his brows as he misfired into one of the shelves. The bullet instantly shattered a lineup of bottles, the glass ringing against the epoxy as its contents splashed and dribbled down the wooden ledge.

In any other situation, I would reflect on my actions. Make myself look at the man and remember his face, or even shed a tear over the thought that this was now just the cost of devotion.

Killing, in cold blood.

It had been his clinic. His supplies. And now—he would rot into the ground, and whole-heartedly become a part of it.

With ringing ears, I hurriedly grabbed my belongings, giving the man only one look before stepping over his bleeding body. The blood looked black in the darkness.

I couldn't think about what I had done. Not with two vital members of my group out of sight, in potential danger. So I ran through the hallway, only stopping once their backs had come into view.

The lobby was brighter. More forgiving in that aspect. Both of their heads were twisted in my direction, looking me over with urgency. . . but they were facing something else, their guns raised. Their positions covered the subject entirely.

"Cyn," Rick said, his voice oddly tight as he looked back to the front, "you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just got mixed up with a walker." I told them, my grip shaky against my pistol. "Who is that?"

Daryl's eyes left me. They both angled their bodies so that I could properly see ahead.

The man was tall. Long, mousy brown hair—and a beard that nearly matched in length. He wore a full trench-coat, black leather gloves, and a beanie. His neck was hidden with an oatmeal colored bandanna.

It was peculiar. He almost looked like—

"Hi." The man spoke, offering a taunting smile. "I'm Jesus."

I released a trembled breath.

He really did see all. Just as I'd been warned.

It appeared the Son of God was already earthbound, prepared to punish me for the grave sin I'd committed only seconds ago.

And punish, he did—for the next five hours were spent running after our stolen vehicle, tying him up, only to later find him on the roof of the truck, chasing him through a walker-infested field, and subsequently watch our supplies roll back, entirely swallowed by a deep, cloudy lake.

We lost everything.

Almost all of it—except for those prescriptions tucked safely in the bag on my back. Those would be the only items returning to Alexandria alongside me, Daryl, Rick, and the unconscious man bound in the backseat of our new vehicle.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·7,900 words • 2:00 am

here's my favorite poem of all time (which happened to inspire a piece of this chapter)!! i remember seeing a two-headed calf in museum when i was super young. it terrified me, but something about it was just so hauntingly beautiful 🥹.

ai chapter summary for those who chose to skip: A month has passed since the fall of the wall. Cyn reflects on change and loneliness while caring for Judith and worrying about Carl, who still struggles with the trauma of his injury. His nightmares, isolation, and shame over his eye weigh heavily on them both. When Cynthia checks on him, Carl opens up about a childhood friend who took his own life after being mocked for his appearance, revealing Carl's own insecurities.

Cynthia discovers Carl's eye is infected, and she joins Rick and Daryl on a supply run to find antibiotics + food. Their search leads them through empty farmland, past a corpse hung like a scarecrow with the phrase "he sees all" written on its shirt, reminding her of her troubled past regarding religion. At an animal hospital, she finds the medicine that could save Carl, but is forced to kill a man to bring it home, testing the limits of her devotion and humanity.

sincerely yours,𝓜 ᥫ᭡.