thirty five. tempest of alabama

thirty five˚༺⋆♱⋆༻˚↳ tempest of alabama ↲

0800 hours

THE BOY I STOOD OVER HAD SLACK LIMBS. His gaze was frozen on the ceiling like there was something interesting on it that only he could see.

I wondered if his life was replaying right there—projected on the roof as my clasped hands drove down against his sternum. I hoped the pressure of my compressions didn't hurt. Prayed that the cracking between his ribs was only a frightening noise, and not a painful occurrence.

"Breathe." I begged the boy.

One,

Two,

Three.

"Come on!" I huffed, my wrists aching something awful.

How long had I been at this?

His lips were parted but his lungs were void of any air. He'd hissed out his last breath minutes ago. His skin was beginning to turn grey. No amount of forcing his heart to pump would bring the color back into his face.

The strange hue reminded me of a memory with my Father. Enterprise, Alabama, 2007. My mother had just given birth to Allison. Dad couldn't stand the pitch of her newborn cry, so he'd planned to attend a networking conference with other religious leaders in our region.

Mom surprisingly agreed. Her only condition was that he bring me, which, at the time, seemed like a plea for us to fix things. I was only six, and I already hated him. A four hour drive wouldn't change that. He preached with the smell of alcohol on his tongue. Others sitting along the pews could never tell, but from the front, I could. Jesus didn't occupy the space when he spoke. His voice of passion sounded no different than the one he used to yell with at home.

I knew the moment he stepped from the stage, his facade would drop, and our family would be subjected to each and every loophole Reverend Hargrave could find. It wasn't about belief for him. It was about cheating the system.

The drive there wasn't so terrible. I didn't bond with him. . . but, there were no tears, either. He was more focused on the road, happy to get away from everything that he hated so dearly back home.

Except for me, of course. I was the leech that never quite let go. The child that he'd never wanted in the first place. But when my mother came to him with the news that she was pregnant, he knew he couldn't deny her—or me. It would taint the image he'd spent decades building. All he'd ever wanted was to be worshipped.

He couldn't run. . .not if he wanted to be ordained by the church.

He was tethered to Willow Lane, in that white house on the col-de-sac. A green front door, with a rusted golden knob. The sidewalk scribbled in chalk and training wheel marks in the lawn.

He would never escape his eldest daughter—or the one that came after—and that was enough. That was punishment. He would rot between those four walls forever.

As we drove through Alabama, the sky gradually lost its color. The soft blues were consumed by thick grey clouds. Rain came down against the windshield, first through taps, eventually turning into intense drumming. The freeway felt like God was pursuing his lips together and blowing our car sideways himself.

Just as we began merging off, the song playing on the stereo paused. An alert broke the silence, releasing a crackling whirr. I remember thinking it sounded similar to my mothers hairdryer before it spoke out, warning of a potentially deadly tornado.

My father immediately circled around and got straight back onto the highway. I could still recall the way I'd turned back, my seatbelt cutting into my neck as I looked to the darkened clouds. I pictured them twisting together and swirling into a great forceful funnel that would drag us in. I cried for an hour in the backseat despite his few flat reminders that it was just a warning, and storms often changed course.

But the lack of color in the air—that grey—haunted me for quite some time. I feared storms for years to come, often hiding beneath my bed while picturing each powerful gust of wind flattening my home into the soil it was built atop.

Nine fatalities occurred that day in Enterprise, but it wasn't until I was twelve that I learned this during one of his sermons.

"Cyn." A voice came from behind me.

"Denise," My head flicked to the side, locking eyes with her. "Take over, please. I'm getting worn."

She didn't move. She only unsheathed her knife solemnly.

"No!" I exclaimed, continuing with compressions. "We can't give up! We can't just let him die!"

I looked down at the boy as I fought for a breath. He looked wrong. Too blue. I pressed into his chest again, this time, flinching at the snap that came from beneath his skin. On the next press, I could feel where his sternum had completely fractured. His chest seemed to be folding inward.

"He's gone. We need to do this before he turns." She spoke softly.

I stepped away. "We have an epi pen. The adrenaline will bring him back. I'll go get—"

"No", the woman stopped me, "it won't. He's bled out from the amputation."

I caught my breath, massaging my palm, "It's Mikey. He can't die. He's just a kid!"

"I'm afraid he already has." Denise responded.

I felt my face go blank, turning my head in hopes that she wouldn't notice my eyes welling up. By the time that I had gained enough composure to look back, the blade was already leaving his skull. I felt my lip tremble, prompting me to push past the curtains and enter back into the main room of the infirmary.

My eyes scanned the filled beds, eventually settling on the last to the right. I quietly reminded myself Carl was here, occupying this space, and if all else failed, I could hold onto that. When I approached his bed, my fingers pressed down on his wrist, only lifting once greeted by a soft beat.

I'd been pushed into the role of medic beside Denise. After I'd finished stitching Carl last night, it was like a floodgate had opened—one injured after another pouring into the infirmary. I hadn't had the chance to step away. I could only grit my teeth and continue forward with what had to be done.

It was truly remarkable what I'd picked up within the twelve hours I'd been here. Denise had the textbooks to guide us through tough operations. She was better at breaking it down into palpable steps. I was good at calmly following her directions and turning them into actions. With that, we didn't make such an awful team.

Except, we'd just lost a patient. Mikey. It saddened me to think about how I'd break the news to Carl. All of our friends were dead. Only days ago, he'd been reminding me that we still had them. But now—we truly didn't.

Maybe I wouldn't get a chance to tell him, but the thought of that was worse.

I lowered at his bedside, my knees digging into the hardwood as my arms folded on the edge of his mattress. For a moment, I watched as his chest rose and fell, each movement lessening the weight in my heart. My hands reached for his, and I interlocked our fingers, swallowing at the discomfort it brought me.

It felt so odd holding his hand without reciprocation, knowing that if he were conscious, he would gladly receive it.

I brought his knuckles to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to them before whispering into his hand, "I'll do anything. Just wake up."

He never stopped breathing, which I should have been thankful for. However, I never entirely reached that point. Denise and I had done plenty of research between treating patients, discovering a trauma to the head, such as the bullet he'd received, likely caused his brain to move inside his skull. There was a high chance that as a result, it had jarred his brainstem enough to render him senseless.

There was absolutely no telling when—or if—he would wake. On top of that, what kind of person he would be. The memories he would carry, or the personality he might possess.

Even though we'd given him a chance at survival, the Carl I once knew may never return. And I'd made a promise to myself that if it was clear he wasn't coming back, I would go with him.

I brought my head up at the sound of the curtain pulling back, wiping at the dampness against my cheek. Denise stood there, looking over each full bed—some only makeshift mattresses on the floor. When our eyes locked, she nodded, letting me know that it was time.

I squeezed Carl's hand before letting him go. As I made my way past each patient, I remembered the lengths the others had gone to last night to make sure each injured body had a spot.

After the dead were cleared from the streets, Gabriel, out of all people, was the first to begin hauling cots and mattresses through our infirmary doors. Praying over each individual, regardless of what they had obtained. Bites that we knew we couldn't operate against, or fractures, amongst many other things. It didn't matter. He spoke each name in the prayer of healing.

He'd even knelt over Carl at some point.

Denise and I had quietly taken care of the bitten victims before the sun rose. Mikey had been one of the only exceptions, as he'd obtained one on his arm. We sawed straight through it behind the curtains, but his screams rendered it useless. I'd spent hours stitching him and wrapping what was left above his elbow. However, in the end, he'd lost too much blood. We didn't have the materials for a transfusion.

Not even CPR could've brought him back, despite my efforts.

I let myself through the thin barrier, sparing a glance at Denise before looking to the body. It now was covered with a thin grey sheet, one that I swore I recognized from Ron's bedroom.

"Will you help me move him?" She asked, taking hold of the gurney.

I nodded, pushing the metal object forward. With the blanket over my friend, it could be anyone. Just hours ago, Carl had been placed on this. I pictured him beneath it, face drained of any color. Body cold, only stiffening as the minutes grew.

We rolled him through the darkened hallway, stopping to open the back door. I went first, supporting the end of it so that we could lift him down the inconveniently placed steps. When he was on even ground, we each took hold of him, shakily lifting him across the lawn towards one of the two body piles.

Burn, and bury. The walkers who'd broke past our fence went straight to burn. Citizens were stacking the corpses like a puzzle, stopping to pour gasoline between each layer. Just twenty feet beyond this, others dug shallow graves for the ones we knew, and loved.

We gently set Mikey here.

As Denise began back in the direction of the infirmary, I peeled the sheet from the boy's face, taking his glasses from my pocket. Looking him once over, I carefully situated them back onto the bridge of his nose before covering him again. The flies couldn't get to him this way. And, the sun wouldn't shine so brightly in his face. He would be perfectly content here until a spot was dug just for him.

But, how long would he stay here, waiting for a place to rest? How many other bodies would be covered with soil first, leaving him to rot in the rising temperatures of daylight?

A painful, sickening twinge ran through my abdomen at the thought.

I stood, walking forward to grab an abandoned shovel. It had been stabbed into an upturned pile of dirt, presumably belonging to a tired worker who'd gone in for a glass of water.

Just as my fingers wrapped around the wooden end, a set of boots crunched along the mixture of dirt and gravel, sending my back to straighten. When I turned, a figure stood against the sun, their shadowed features just barely recognizable.

Squinting, I immediately took note of the bow slung over him. Daryl. He was streaked with mud and blood, looking as if he'd crawled out of his own grave. Made it back from hell himself with arrows to spare.

"Little-miss can't die," He said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, "they have you diggin' graves now?"

I let the shovel slip from my hands. I hadn't seen him since I'd stepped past the gates with Noah on that dreadful run to the warehouse. Carl told me he'd been the one the carry me through the infirmary doors when I'd returned, all limp and pale. In the silence of his absence, I'd convinced myself it was the last he'd ever see of me.

But here he was, taking it upon himself to pull me into an embrace like he'd been here all along. And it hurt, more than I thought it might. I wasn't the same girl he'd left to get better while on his quarry mission. Each death, each friend I couldn't save—it was all slowly eating me away.

I wished I could lay in the warmth beside Mikey and wait there for Carl. I couldn't do it anymore. I just wanted the pain to be gone. The strength I once held was now too heavy. I'd had to give it up to stay standing.

Though, Daryl was a reminder that I couldn't succumb to the ache. There were people who were counting on me to continue showing up. Not just him, but every body in that infirmary. I owed it to them. To Judith, who would feel such absence if I did not take over for Carl. And Rick, who had once given me a chance to be part of something better.

"Where have you been?" I uttered with a catch in my throat.

As he stepped back, he scanned me over like the memory of the blood I'd once worn was still against my skin.

"Got ambushed an' separated from the others. Held hostage, then robbed blind by some diabetic freak. Took my damn bike."

My face contorted while trying to find any sign that he was bluffing, but expression remained neutral—proof he meant it.

I let out a breath, kneeling down to pick up the shovel. The metal let out a quiet shff as I brought it down past the grass, using a good amount of strength to pull the chunk from the ground. I dropped it into the pile before lurching it into the ground again.

"How did you find your way back?" I asked, confusion coming across my face as he stole the shovel from my hands.

He used his foot to bring the blade further into the ground, effortlessly pulling out a larger hunk of dirt than I thought possible. Crumbles of earth rained down as he tilted the object to release it of its weight.

"Found a fuel truck, then Sasha an' Abraham. We ran into some pricks along the way, blew them to bits, then came back an' lit the whole goddamn lake on fire."

Now, the blackened grass around the edge of the water made sense. The charred bodies, and the smell that came along with them. The dead had walked straight towards it like insects attracted to light.

The image in my mind was strange. Dead ones wading through shallow waters whilst going up in flames. Stumbling and extinguishing only to ignite once coming to a stand. I imagined if planes still flew through the skies, the site would look like fireflies dancing along the water.

"You ran into trouble?" I asked, quickly moving my boot once realizing I stood on a corner of Mikey's gray cover.

He lifted another mound of dirt, a voiceless noise of displeasure coming from his throat. "They stopped us on the road. Said to hand over everything we got, an' that our property was owned by some douchebag named. . .Keegan?"

I tucked my hair behind my ear. "Nothing belongs to anyone, anymore."

He straightened for a moment, before turning to face me. Sweat came down the side of his face like teardrops.  "This place belongs to us. We all belong to each other. Ain't nobody gonna' take that."

I swallowed, easing my dry throat. The grave was nearly finished. He'd done it with such ease, working with something that could only be described as muscle memory. It made me wonder how many he'd dug in his lifetime. Terrified that someday, I would do it without difficulty, too.

I began grabbing Mikey's feet. He immediately motioned to stop me.

"I got it, kid."

I shook my head. "But—"

"I said I got it." He softly reaffirmed, adjusting his arms beneath the boy's smaller frame. "Go on back to the infirmary. Denise needs you more."

Nodding, I stepped back to let him past, watching as he lifted my friend into the grave. Once I was sure he was set down to rest, gently, I turned to begin my walk back to the infirmary.

"We need you, Daryl." I told him. "Thank you for finding your way home."

▬ ▬ ▬

1600 hours

I was tending to Josephine Browne—an 80 year old woman who'd accidentally fallen straight into her own kitchen blade while trying to defend her home during the attack—when Maggie and Glenn came through the doors.

I'd noticed them first from the corner of my eye, looking at one another with an expression that could only be described as anticipation.

"Hold this here, ma'am." I instructed her.

She placed two careful fingers against the clean sheet of gauze on her wound, squinting in discomfort. I studied the folds around her eyes, a sense of longing washing across me like the river my father had once baptized me in.

There was no promise I'd ever reach her age. Death came too fast these days to allow me to become something like Josephine.

"I'll be right back," I told her, "let me fish around for more wrap, and see what those two need."

She managed a smile, nodding. "Thank you, honey."

I slowly stood, using the wall as an aid. Weaving past the beds, I found my way to the front, removing my soiled nitrile gloves before addressing the two.

I was so, unbelievably exhausted. My eyelids felt too heavy to bear. But—I reminded myself that I still had the luxury to see. Something that Carl would struggle with, if he woke.

Standing in front of the couple, I wondered what they might look like from only one eye. It took effort not to squint one closed and experience life from Carl's new point of view. To become accustomed to it, so that I could understand the frustrations he might feel.

I wondered if his lost vision would appear black, or if there would simply be nothing at all, like trying to see through my own kneecap.

"Hi." I greeted, blinking the weariness away. "How can I help?"

Glenn offered a warm smile.

Odd.

I hadn't seen one of those in many long hours. There wasn't much to commemorate. If anything, there was more of a reason to be frightened. Our defenses weren't even halfway to being completed. The builders were still salvaging what few pieces of the main wall remained. Others had been venturing out, gathering more steel from nearby construction sites. We had to mandate a 24/7 defense team at the entrance to address the dead that neared.

None of it, however, promised a tomorrow.

"We were wondering about some supplements you might have here." Maggie spoke, her fingers interlocking with Glenn's.

How fortunate she was to do something so natural and simple with him. She was blessed with the return of her husband. Glenn was entirely unscathed. It made me wonder what prayer she'd said in the late hours of the night to get him back. I wanted it for myself.

"Sure thing," I responded, tilting my head. "We've got Iron, Fish oil, Vitamin D—"

"What about prenatals?" Glenn interjected, his eyes anxiously scanning mine.

My breath audibly cut off. I suddenly understood Maggie's hand against her abdomen. It wasn't an action done out of discomfort, like I previously thought. It was reassurance for her very own child.

"Oh—I'm. . ." I carefully searched for the right words.

No. 'Sorry' was not the right thing to say. They'd entered the infirmary full of hope. Asked for prenatals—not abortion medication—which meant that they wanted this baby, or at least, had come to terms with the fact that it was happening.

"Congratulations." I spoke out, but I feared it sounded more like a question.

Maggie offered a small appreciative smile.

Judith was enough to keep our hands full. Not just Rick and Carl's, but mine, and our entire households. We all pitched in, and even then, it still felt impossible. The others residing in Base B helped where they could, but the weight of keeping her safe and healthy never seemed to lighten.

Now, there would be another child to account for. Maggie's health and the state of the baby would become a major concern—one that I wasn't sure our group could afford in our current circumstances.

I turned towards the cabinet against the opposing wall. I grabbed the set of keys on the counter beside it, flipping through the differently shaped metals. When my eyes caught on a familiar jagged one, I inserted it into the cabinets lock, toggling with it until the mechanism clicked.

I pushed the doors open, scanning each shelf carefully. It was stocked with whatever had once been in each empty home, along with the few we'd been able to scavenge along the way. All over the counter, but still valuable, in many different scenarios.

After moving many bottles to the side, my eyes set on a brown bottle of dietary supplements. The print was worn, but I could still make out the end of the word.

—natals

There was a picture of a pregnant woman drawn on the label. Besides that, the black fine print let me know it was only expired by a month. Grabbing hold of it, I twisted the lid from the neck, carefully examining the gummies within. It was nearly halfway full. It would last a month or two.

I did my best to ignore the persisting ache in my stomach that hadn't gone away since burying Mikey. I took a breath to try and release the tension, then made my way back to the couple.

"Have you told the others?" I asked, handing the bottle to Maggie.

Her and Glenn exchanged a quick glance.

"Aaron knows. That's it." She responded, quickly stuffing the item into her bag. "We haven't gotten a chance to tell the others."

For a moment, I thought about her blonde haired sister. Those blue eyes that would surely be lit with delight at the news. It wouldn't have mattered if the walls were down, or if we were in complete safety. She would be smiling and humming for the rest of the day, dreaming of the new world that the baby would bring forth.

And because Beth couldn't—I stepped towards Maggie. I pulled myself into her, my arms wrapping carefully across her back. I picked up on the gentle sigh that left the woman, her body relaxing into mine. When I pulled away, she placed a gentle hand on my cheek, tilting her head at me in appreciation.

"If you need anything at all," I started.

She smiled. "I'll come straight here. Thank you, sweetheart."

I nodded. "Of course."

As they turned to leave, Maggie stopped in the open doorway. I was picking up a fresh bandage roll for Josephine when she spoke out.

"Enid is back, safe. Glenn found her." She told me. "When you have a chance, I'm sure she'd really love to see a familiar face."

I fidgeted with the gauze, fighting the smile on my lips. "Thanks for telling me. Get home safe."

Once the couple exited through the doors, I came back to Josephine's side, apologizing for the wait. She assured me she understood, and that she could see how overwhelmed we were.

She was right about that.

Denise was busy taking each patient's temperature, hastily making her rounds. She did this every few hours to be sure none of them were running a fever—a telltale sign that they were either fighting an infection. . .or developing one.

A type of illness that could only be cured by a blade to the skull.

I was finishing the older woman's wrap when Denise found herself in front of Carl. I tried my hardest to focus on what was in front of me, ultimately failing when hearing the thermometer beep. My head twisted back, my eyes scanning the scene behind. Denise immediately caught onto this, turning the object towards me to reveal the flashing number.

100.8°F

Warm—but almost normal for him, especially with the expected inflammatory response his body would create after such a traumatic injury. It'd been about one and a half degrees higher earlier. The cold compress seemed to work, keeping his temperature lowered.

He was okay.

I turned back and clipped the end of the bandage into place. I was so focused on making sure it wasn't too tight against her skin, that I nearly missed the smile coming across her face. Almost, but not quite.

It was clear she'd smiled often in her lifetime. The lines were there to prove of the joy she once felt.

I suddenly remembered my mother pulling her skin taut as she applied makeup in the low-lit bathroom. She used to look at her reflection like it was an adversary, which never quite made sense to to me, considering Allie and I reflected her features perfectly. She hated the creases along the corner of her eyes that reflected the years she'd lived. To me, they made her even more beautiful. The same way they did for Josephine.

I'd be lucky to acquire those marks of a fulfilled life.

"You must love that boy." The woman spoke, her voice soft but weak.

Her chin was tilted at Carl. My face was suddenly hot as I gathered the trash around me. I let out a gentle laugh—something to show her that she was wrong—but her eyes only brightened in response.

"It's not like that." I spoke quietly, peeling my gloves off.

I quickly twisted my head both ways to make sure no one had heard. Denise was still across the room. The nearby patients were either sleeping, or talking amongst themselves. When I turned back, I noted the small grin on the elderly woman's face.

"I've lived long enough to memorize that look." She insisted.

Her words settled into the air as I smoothed her shirt back over her dressing. I helped her sit straight. As I adjusted the pillow behind her so that she could lie back comfortably, I found myself leaning closer.

"I don't know what it feels like, ma'am." I responded truthfully.

The space between her eyebrows scrunched. "Have you never loved someone?"

I pulled the sheet over her, softly smiling. She looked quite a bit like my Mom's mother.

"I have," I started, "just not a boy—and I'm told that's a bit different."

She gave a gentle laugh in return. "Well, yes, it is a different kind of sting."

I'd never heard anybody describe fondness as something that could be painful. . .but she was right. Love hurt. Sometimes it felt like an uncomfortable, itchy warmth in my chest. However, more often than not, I swore my sternum was bitterly cold with devotion.

I thought that was just the price to pay for caring about someone. Especially in this world. But, maybe there was more to it.

"It's worth it, though." Josephine spoke. "To love is to live. Without it, we have nothing."

She paused for a moment, her smile wavering. "My husband used to say that. I remember thinking it wasn't entirely true—that there was more to life than love. I didn't figure out how right he was until he passed."

I rubbed my wrist like I was soothing the ache of an imprint of a handcuff. "Once we get this wound of yours better, you'll have plenty of time to prove him wrong. You can live again."

She let out a shaken breath. "His shirts are hung in the closet, but they haven't been pulled from the hangers in a long time. He didn't have to see the world go down, and for that, I thank God. But all I have left is a quiet, empty home. I'm old and tired, and all I want is to be with him, again."

"Sometimes we have to wait." I spoke. "Love is patient."

That was from a verse. A verse that I could not remember in its entirety. Something about my failure to recall it made my shoulders ease up. I was becoming further from the girl I once was, each day.

"That's a lovely way to put it." Josephine's eyes brightened. "Perhaps our love never really left."

I nodded. "And you will find it again."

She placed a gentle hand to my arm, first looking at me, then Carl's bed. "And you'll discover it."

▬ ▬ ▬

1900 hours

I noticed the blood in my underwear after peeling the clothes from my body to prepare for a shower.

I knew what it was. The previous discomfort in my stomach now made sense. I had heard whispers between the women in our group whilst we were on the road. Few talked about needing supplies, and others had claimed the happening didn't occur for them while so starved and exhausted.

I took a steady breath, filling my lungs with the steamed air. It sat warm in my chest as I looked into the mirror. The thought never occurred to me that I would experience womanhood, too.

My face was different than the last time I'd studied it, which was an activity I often tried to avoid for my own sanity. My cheekbones were further defined with something I could only recognize as physical maturity. My eyes weren't as hollow as I remembered them to be. They held a liveliness I didn't yet recognize.

I pulled my lengthy hair back, looking to my jaw. My eyes followed the curve, remembering the fullness it had once carried. I wondered when it had changed. I put a finger to my mouth and noted my lips didn't feel so pouty anymore. They were finally proportionate to the rest of my features. My body had just begun healthily filling out, proof of the nourishment I had received since arriving at Alexandria.

I didn't look like the dead, anymore. My reflection wasn't so unsettling. Still, it caused my throat to burn. I quickly stepped into the shower in an attempt to ignore the tears welling in my eyes. Before I had washed all the shampoo from my hair, I was sitting under the spray of the shower-head, sobbing into my knees.

I wanted my mom.

She would know what to do. How to make the stabbing in my lower abdomen go away. Which soaps to wash my undergarments with so that they showed no trace of my becoming, and what products I would need moving forward.

But she wasn't here. The haunting image of the bullet in her face brutally reminded me of this. I wasn't sure I could even recall her features without the blood. People once said that I looked just like her—but my face was different, now. Changed. I had become my own person, and left little trace of who I came from.

There was nothing left to remind me.

I struggled for a breath. My eyes burned as I blinked against the stream. The hissing of the shower drowned out my cries—a comforting shroud that assured me only the water itself understood how badly I was hurting. The droplets ran soft against me, almost maternal in the way that they caressed my skin. For a moment, I pictured her comfort. I whispered that it would be okay, over and over, imaging her voice as my own.

But it was only a vice. She wasn't here. I would never get to feel the love of my mother again—a thought that made me wish I'd spent less time avoiding my home. I had tried so desperately to stay clear of my father, unbeknownst to the fact I was giving up precious time with my mom.

I wished there was a moment left to tell her that I never once feared her. I didn't feel any animosity towards her for choosing the wrong person to love. She was perfect. Just trapped—like a flower pulled from its roots, placed in a vase to rot.

I would spend forever missing her, and yet, I'd also devote the rest of my life to never following in her steps. That would be my final act of love.

I didn't know who to ask for guidance regarding the period. Michonne was in the house making dinner when I'd walked in. She'd asked me to stay and eat something, but I declined, explaining I was only back to shower before returning to the infirmary. I couldn't tell her. She'd been particularly close with Rick recently. I wasn't positive that she wouldn't tell him. And, Carl's father knowing I was bleeding between my legs wouldn't make my situation any more comfortable.

Maggie had enough on her plate. She had the baby to focus on, as well as keeping herself healthy. I didn't want to trouble her with my own problems. Tara was still busy with street cleanup. When walking home, I'd seen her with a bandanna across her mouth. She'd waved solemnly before flicking her lighter on, setting fire to the pile of bodies before her.

This would be my own burden.

I hugged my knees closer to my chest, lowering my head so that the water could wash across the back of my scalp. Here, I pictured my mother's hands with the pressure of the stream, scrubbing my hair with her special hair wash. I could still remember the smell of honey, and white lily.

The whirr of the pipes transformed into her soft humming, and, I realized this was the closest I'd ever be to her again.

I shut my eyes and let the vision become whole, just for a little while.

▬ ▬ ▬

2200 hours

The infirmary was much quieter than before. Denise and I had sent almost seventy percent of the patients home before nightfall, leaving only the critically injured to remain.

The soft glow of two tall wick candles provided just enough light for us to work our way around and secure each individual to their bed. We used leather belts, blanket ties, and duct tape with gauze padding.

Nobody objected it. They were quick to offer their wrists or ankles, nodding understandingly as we explained it would not only keep them—but all of the others safe. Although this challenged my conscious, the most difficult of it all was not having the approval of those who weren't yet alert.

It felt inherently wrong to tie them up. It made me imagine how I must have been taken to Grady Memorial. Limp, and bound like a freshly slaughtered deer. I then thought of that girl in the trunk after Beth was buried. The walker Maggie had stumbled across and become deeply disturbed by. The dead knew not of hunger. It was clear she'd been tied up and in that car since the start. Subjected to a death where she didn't even have the privilege of using her limbs to hug herself as she slipped away.

It cut deep to do that to another person, even if it was an act for the greater good.

After the last of the meds were handed out, and nearly everyone was asleep, I approached Carl's bedside. Denise passed me the last restraint, and I thanked her with a nod. She understood why it had to be me. The action also let me know she trusted I would do it, despite my obvious care for the boy.

I wasn't sure if that made me strong, or if it painted a picture of betrayal. I knew Carl wouldn't have agreed with the infirmary's choice to handcuff me when I was terribly injured after the supply run. Being willing to do it to him made me question my character.

However, I came to the conclusion that the moment I stopped thinking about others, and only Carl, would be when I truly lost my moral compass. I knew he would agree with that.

As I pulled up a chair beside him, Denise quietly spoke out, "Will you be okay closing up on your own? I know you haven't had any time with him yet, so,—"

"Yes." I replied, anxiously winding Carl's restraint around my palm. "Thank you. I'll make sure everything's in order before I go."

She adjusted her sleeves, taking a moment to look over each patient. The expression on her face let me know she was silently appreciating the work we had done today.

There would be plenty to do tomorrow, but for now, everything was in order.

"I want you to know how much I appreciate your help." She said, her keys lightly jingling as she set them on the counter for me. "I couldn't do it without you."

I gave her my best attempt at a smile. "Goodnight, Denise. I'll see you in the morning."

After she tiredly waved goodbye, the door was closed behind her, and the infirmary became awfully quiet. For only a moment, it reminded me of the way tiny creatures in southern grass would go mute at the presence of a threat.

I unraveled the cut-up sheet from my hand, placing it on the small side table. Before paying much attention to it, I put the back of my hand to the boy's face. He was still warm, but extremely far from the heat my mother gave off after she'd acquired tetanus. There was still plenty of time for an infection to settle in, but this small contrast comforted me for the time being.

I grabbed the metal bowl from beneath his bed, careful not to slosh the cold water inside of it around. I wrung out the rag that had been submerged in it, then placed it on the side of his cheek. His forehead was completely covered with bandages. The soft fabric went down at an angle, resulting in more than half of the right side of his face to be covered.

"Your dad brought me dinner." I whispered to him, my fingers lightly pressing against the towel. "He thanked me for being here. For taking care of you. Said I was strong—"

Of course, he didn't respond.

I tenderly lifted the corner of the gauze sticking out from his edge of the dressing, leaning down to get a good look at the wound. Despite the gloomy lighting, I could see the stitches mending his superficial lacerations were holding up. The sutures closing his socket were still knotted together tightly.

The bullet had completely destroyed the structure of his eyelid, leaving nothing but a deep crater. I was afraid of it the night before—but now—I couldn't deny that there was something hauntingly beautiful about it. His shredded flesh was stained with clotting red and deep mahogany, resembling something of a freshly cracked pomegranate.

"—But he's wrong. All I've done today is cry."

I folded back the sheet covering him, taking his hand into my own. I gave it a tight squeeze before moving it onto my lap. There was nothing from him in return. Just the weight of his limp fist.

I reached for the restraint. My chest ached with intense heaviness as I looped the fabric around his wrist, bringing both ends together to form a knot. I slowly lowered his hand and let it hang off the mattress, then secured the opposite end to the metal bed-frame. I gave it a tug before deciding it was secure enough.

I wanted to apologize, but my throat burned viciously. I knew that if my lips parted, nothing but tears would follow. Instead, I shakily let go of my breath, leaning over him to place my head on his chest.

A quiet thump echoed back into my ear—a reminder that he was still in there, holding on. I settled further into him, my hand brushing his hair back before cupping the side of his neck.

For as long as he was here, I would be, too.

I could be patient.

▬ ▬ ▬

0400 hours

I woke to the sound of a groan, long and guttural, as if whatever it came from was in a tremendous amount of pain. My back throbbed as I snapped up—an instant consequence of the way I'd unintentionally fallen asleep against Carl.

My eyes stung with exhaustion as I blinked rapidly, my heart quickening out of instinct. The candles had long since burnt themselves out, leaving nothing but a space void of all light. I instantly came to a stand. Taking a step at the window, I kept my hands in front of me to search for the cord of the blinds. After a few moments of fumbling around, I gave the string a tug, letting forth the glow of the moon.

I came to Carl's side now, leaning low. With a quick touch to the uninjured side of his face, I could tell his temperature had come down quite a bit. His chest was steady in the way it moved, lips pressed together in a straight line.

It couldn't have been him calling out. He seemed to be just fine—if not better than before.

The sound of leather straining against metal brought my neck to twist to the left. I did my best to ignore the ache it caused as I stepped away from Carl. My eyes swiftly scanned each occupied bed in search of the cause. But everything was eerily still now, as something knew it was being watched.

Like it was holding its breath just for me. I walked forward, goosebumps raising against my skin as a weakened plank creaked beneath my boot. This small occurrence reminded me of the familiar stag handled blade I'd tucked into the back of my red shoe. I bent down to slide it out from between the worn leather and my skin.

"Denise?" I whispered out, looking to the white curtain separating the room in half.

The same one I'd been behind in the early hours of the prior day, begging Mikey to come back.

There was no reply. I gripped my knife tighter, bringing it level with my chest before I continued on. With quiet steps, I made my way past three of the six patients. All of them were seemingly deep in a state of sleep. Unmoving, and ever-so-silent.

I approached the curtain, my weapon prepared to protect. I could hear nothing but the aggressive thumping in my chest, putting me at a slight disadvantage as I reached for the fabric with my free hand. I pulled it back in one swift motion, the hooks screeching against the rod as I uncovered the back room.

I let out a breath, loosening the hold on my knife. It was unoccupied, and it likely had been since moving Mikey's cold body from the metal cart. I thought about my efforts in saving him. About how it didn't matter how much I wanted him to survive. Every death seemed to come on its own time, sure and definitive like it had already been written.

There was really no stopping it. Just acceptance, and moving forward.

It made me wonder how I would die. If it would be slow and painful, or if the happening would be so quick that I wouldn't feel it at all. Like a bullet to the skull—just as my blonde friend had received from Dawn. It was unlikely Beth felt anything. The pain had come after she hit the ground, but it was not hers to carry. It was ours. Mine.

Something morbid within me didn't wish to go quick. I hoped to know what was happening before it ended. To feel it, and experience the sensation. I wanted to know the secrets of death, and look it straight in the eye before it took me.

The past 24 hours had been full of missing those no longer with me. And the truth was, I didn't know how to continue without them. I was a mosaic of people I had loved. A museum of things that once were. But it was too much. The weight of it all was crushing down on my soul.

I was torn from my thoughts at the sound of a struggled breath. It was low and sharp, rattling out from someone's throat like there was something wet stuck in their esophagus. Either that, or they had cried for much too long, leaving their voice box raw.

I walked towards the second row of beds, carefully looking the remaining patients over. I had nearly given up squinting through the dim haze when my eyes locked on something dark on one of the beds sheets. I pressed my hand into it, swallowing harshly once feeling the damp warmth of it.

I could smell the iron.

I knew the bed. I had been at it for quite a while yesterday. Josephine laid here, turnt to the wall. Tucking my knife into my waistband, I gently peeled the sheets from her body. Almost instantly, it was apparent something had gone wrong. The side of her shirt was soiled with blood. When lifting her dressing, my fear that her sutures had split was confirmed.

"Mrs. Browne," I spoke out, lightly shaking her, "your wound is open. I need you on your back so that I can close it."

She shifted, seemingly waking from whatever dream I'd pulled her out of. The leather belt securing her wrist pulled taut as she rolled onto her spine—an audible confirmation that it was her restraint I'd heard earlier.

My stomach hurt at the thought of her being in so much pain, secured tight against her bed frame with no freedom to properly move. There was no telling how long she'd been wailing, all while I slept.

"I'm so sorry," I spoke, grabbing onto her hand.

Her fingers tightened around my wrist. Before I could say anything else, her eyes came to an open, and I became aware that she wasn't in any pain at all. Her eyes were glazed over with a filmy-white. Her lips pulled apart to growl at me, but the noise sounded more like a cry, if anything.

A sorrowful weep.

"No," I breathed out, my bottom lip quivering.

I took my wrist back easily. There wasn't much fight left in the woman. She was docile—the belt looped around her wrist enough to keep her down. She bore her teeth at me, but I didn't see any hunger in the expression.

For a moment, she reminded me of our old dog. When my father's voice got too forceful, Sarge would show his canines in the same manner—and though unwilling to strike, he would remain stiff with his ears pulled back, and eyes narrowed.

Josephine wore the same warning.

"I did everything right," I attempted to console myself.

There was a chance that wound had been bled enough to split the stitches under its pressure. Though, it was more likely that I'd done something incorrect while stitching her. Perhaps I'd failed to secure one of the knots tight enough, or used the wrong wire sizing.

There were endless possibilities, and nearly every single one of them left me convinced it had been my fault.

I sat back against the opposing empty bed. There was enough distance between us that she wouldn't be able to touch me even if she tried. My fingers clawed through my hair desperately, pulling at the strands like I would find some sort of lifeline to revive her along my scalp.

But she was dead. There was no way to bring her back—to bring any of the perished back.

I was brutally reminded of this as her free hand reached out, frail fingers spreading apart and clutching onto the air as if there was something there. Someone.

There was a soft sparkle against her ring finger, reminding me of her late husband. Her quiet home, and the closet full of his shirts that moths had surely been eating through over the months. I thought about the promises they must have made to one other on their day of unity—to have and to hold until the world itself fell apart.

It was unlikely they ever anticipated coming so close to the end of everything. Despite this, their love prevailed. Even though he'd met a kinder fate, Josephine had carried a piece of her husband until her last moment. She'd shared their story with me only hours ago, planting a seed of remembrance within my chest. I would carry it with me as long as I lived, a quiet confirmation that love could succeed death itself.

But at what cost? Did love truly matter in this new age, or was it only a wishful thought? Wasn't it easier to speak such vows when you could hold onto the promise of tomorrow? Nowadays, there was no such thing. Love now seemed to be an oath of the moment—not eternity.

Death came too quick to let love settle like dust on the sill. It was like a constant draft sweeping through an old home, sending the golden particles of affection to disperse through the air. We were never granted the privilege of peace. There would always be something waiting to break it apart.

The metal buckle of the belt rang against the iron bed frame, bringing me back to the present moment. The elderly woman's secured arm tugged against the hold, a wordless plea to be set free. Her teeth audibly snapped together before moving back and forth in a grinding motion.

It would be easy to die, if I wanted.

All I'd have to do is bring myself forward, and she'd do the rest. One bite is all it would take—then the suffering would end. It seemed death was the only thing that could numb the growing ache in the space between my lungs.

But I stayed right where I was, listening to the mechanical rhythm of her struggle. I gently slid the pad of my thumb against the blade I'd unsheathed moments ago. Its cold, sharpened edge felt like Braille against my skin, the sensation telling me what I already knew I needed to do.

I carefully maneuvered around her extended arm. Once I was out of her line of sight, my hand found her head, and I regretfully pushed her downward. Her snarls turned soft against the feather pillow, allowing me to line the tip of my knife up above her ear.

When my arm steadied, I pushed it inwards, rendering her instantly limp. Only a moment later, a squelch echoed throughout the silenced infirmary as I pulled the weapon from her skull. I quickly brought the sheets across her so that I wouldn't have the option to access the scene.

A shuddered breath came from me, an instant testament to my ability to outlast every form of death—even when those around me would not stop succumbing.

Before I could reflect on any of it, a slow rustling sounded out from behind. My back straightened. As I turned myself, my eyes broke from the dark liquid oozing from the old woman's head. They instantly found Carl's bed, where something had undeniably changed.

He was sitting up.

The nightly glow bestowed a softened grey sheen against his bare chest, leaving him to appear void of any life. His head was tilted at the window, the odd position restricting my view of him entirely.

My body was hit with a violent shiver as I promptly stood. The blade in my hand left soft dribbles of blood along the floor as I took an unsure step forward. It reminded me of the water that had clung to my body after I'd gotten out of the shower. The way the droplets had pelted along the wood like there'd been a leak in the roof.

His head snapped towards me at the sound. I silently prepared myself for the confirmation that he was gone. That this was it. A rattle in his throat, or an unnatural movement.

But it never came.

Instead, he spoke, "I saw you. Standing there—under the stars."

His voice was raspy and full of exhaustion. My shoulders dropped, the weight in my bones suddenly becoming entirely bearable. I quickly wiped my knife before putting it back in the strap inside my boot. Almost instantly, I was at his side, sitting on the edge of the bed with his fingers holding mine.

"Why do you look different now?" He asked, his uncovered eye squinting at me.

He was talking about the fall. It was only almost two days ago, yet felt like an eternity away. We'd been separated for the majority of it, and still—I was what he remembered. He didn't ask about the bloodshed. Jessie holding onto him as she went down, or the way Rick had taken her arm with the axe. He didn't talk about Sam, or Ron.

He seemed to be fixated only on the moment our eyes had connected. That brief second where everything felt like it was going to be okay.

Until it wasn't.

He sounded as if he was trying to make sense of this reality—like he wasn't sure if he was still dreaming, or not. The tone he used brought an ache through my heart. He was so blissfully unaware.

I didn't want to be the one to tell him the hard truth. The few times I'd pictured him waking, I'd imagined his father to be the one. Rick was good at that. At working through the discussions that felt impossible. My mouth went dry as I realized I would have to be the one to introduce him to the life he now faced.

Before I could start, he continued. "It's like you're further away. I feel you touching me, but. . .you don't seem close."

His thumb brushed the top of my hand, and I could tell it wasn't just an act in search of comfort. He was trying to understand. Touch would likely become much more powerful, now. With only half of his vision, he would have to rely on other measures. Unbeknownst to him, he was already adapting, using his most trusted sense.

"You lost an eye." I answered truthfully. "Your perception is going to be a little distorted as you adjust."

His thumb stilled, hand leaving mine. He raised it to the right side of his face, an expression of realization coming across him as his fingers met gauze. His head suddenly hung low as he swallowed harshly. I brought my head down to observe his face. His waterline looked glossy, but I couldn't be sure in the pre-dawn hours.

He opened his mouth, but only a crackled hiss came from his throat, as if someone was standing on his chest. I placed my hand on his shoulder, letting it circle down his mid-back in an effort to comfort him.

"I'm sorry, Carl. I'm so sorry."

His posture remained stiff, showing me that no amount of consultation could make up for the fact that he would never be the same.

"I—" He began, slowly, like he was afraid his own voice would betray him. "I think I want to go back to sleep, now."

"Okay." My hand dropped from his back, and I came to a stand.

I began fixing the edge of sheet that had become displaced beneath my body. "At least let me help you get situated?"

He shook his head. "No. . .baby. It's alright. I can put myself to bed."

He'd never called me that. I thought that if any of the other patients were awake, they'd be able to tell, too. It had come out soft—nearly shy. But he hadn't stumbled on it like it hurt to say, or attempted to take it back. It just sat in the air, real, and heavy.

It likely would have brought more of a reaction out of me, if he hadn't just kindly told me to let him be. And despite the sting of it, I knew he wouldn't have referred to me as that unless he wanted me to know he was still holding onto our conversation back at the cemetery.

About being more.

"Sure," I agreed, my arms instinctively crossing. "I'll come back in a couple hours. Get some rest."

Carl nodded. He obviously wasn't aware that I'd just put Josephine down. He was completely oblivious to the body beneath the covers only a few rows from his bed. I wanted to keep it that way—deciding I'd only move her once he was no longer alert.

I'd give it about thirty minutes before returning to bring her to the bury pile. She would be the last grave dug in relation to the wall's destruction.

One day, I wanted to tell him about her.

But now was not the time.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · 9798 words • 7:40pm

guys!!! i saw hayden (ethel cain) in concert!! (that's my picture)!! it was truly an unforgettable experience. over the years, so many of her songs have played in the background while I wrote cyn and carl. it felt full circle hearing her live—I thought about this little story so much throughout those few hours.

hayden is a beautiful reminder to never give up on your own creations—whether that be a book, or even a project. there is always a crowd who will resonate with your work. remember that. . .and thank you for supporting mine <3.

^ me writing this chap bc for some reason i could only write ONE singular sentence a day for WEEKS.

also the original chapter was 4,000 words and now it's nearly 10,000 ... i think this may be my new record yall ;) . really great but will probably never happen again bc i crashed out so many times

sincerely yours,𝓜 ᥫ᭡.