Note: The prompt was "behind closed doors". My first thought was the song 'Behind Closed Doors' the kind of nice, old classic country tune (Charlie Rich) Hershel might have sung. It also sort of implied smut. Unfortunately, my brain doesn't work that way. It took me in a different direction entirely. Sorry. This is set between Still and Alone and would fit between "A Night So Long" and "Sometimes You Gotta Believe".
Promises Broken
"There," Daryl whispered as he pointed to the walker stumbling around the corner of the house. Within seconds it dropped, a motionless pile of filthy rags, arms and legs flopped sloppily on the ground, a crossbow bolt jutting from the back of its head. It had not even twitched, just crumpled. Daryl crept slowly forward. This could be the only walker, or there could be hundreds just inside the tree line, or dozens inside the house.
It had been a nice house once, Beth thought. Nothing rich or special but nice. Two stories, eight rooms she guessed, with a wrap-around porch that reminded her of home. Someone had gone to great pains to secure the downstairs windows, nailing sturdy boards on the outside, strong enough to resist the relentless weight of many walkers. The upstairs windows were still intact which gave her hope that the interior might still be secure, but as they rounded the house, she could see the front screen door wide open and gently swaying in the wind. The inside could be crawling with walkers.
Daryl approached cautiously, his bow ready. Beth was immediately behind him, knife drawn. Since the country club, they had fallen into a routine whenever they thought they might encounter walkers. Because her weapon was short range, she guarded Daryl's back always alert for walkers approaching from the side or rear. He took the lead, because he could kill quickly, silently and from a greater distance. He rarely allowed her to get within range of danger, though she had her share of walker kills.
As they stepped inside the door, Beth pulled it shut behind them preventing any walkers on the outside from following them. She stood with her back to Daryl's so they could see both directions. Once the door was secure Daryl intentionally pounded on the wall of the front hallway then listened. This was the part Beth hated. Holding her breath, senses stretching outward like an insect's feelers, waiting for the unmistakable growl of a walker. Some were stealthier than others, but they all gave away their approach with their mindless vocalizing.
She felt Daryl begin to move, the warmth of his back gone and the cool air prickling through her thin shirt. The weather had turned sharply colder in the last two days and they both conceded that shelter, or at the very least, warmer clothing was now not only a necessity, but a priority. So they decided to investigate the next house they found - this house. It did not matter how many times they repeated this action Beth always felt as though they were invading someone else's privacy, even if that someone was probably long dead and risen.
Daryl stepped into the first room on the left. A large living room, modestly furnished with hard wood floors that had long ago lost their sheen. It was empty, as was the room across the hall which may have been a parlor once upon a time. Tall shelves full of books lined one wall. Two large, overstuffed arm chairs invited her to curl up with a book and laze the day away. A luxurious dream that was no longer an option.
The kitchen and the laundry room were also empty of walkers. Beth began to relax a little. The house showed signs of habitation in the not too distant past. Unwashed dishes in the sink, and half folded clothing in the laundry as though the owners had left in a hurry, or had been interrupted. A layer of dust had begun to settle over everything, cobwebs drooped from the ceiling corners and green mold covered the unwashed dished. They did a complete sweep of the lower floor, including all of the closets and found nothing.
"We should check the basement," Beth whispered to Daryl.
"Nothin' down there gonna get up here before we hear it."
"But there could be food," Beth persisted. "There's what's left of a big garden in the backyard. Maybe there's a root cellar or canned goods. Momma always lined the basement walls with home canned food."
Daryl nodded concession to her logic. "Upstairs first."
They moved to the open stairway across from the front door. At the top of the stairs was a long hall with four closed doors. For one giddy moment Beth felt like she was a contestant in a game show trying to guess what was behind each closed door. The silly notion faded quickly when they heard shuffling noises and a low growl. Daryl held up one hand indicating she should remain motionless. Two of the doors were slightly ajar and two were completely closed. They quickly checked the rooms with open doors and found nothing in them as well as nothing in the third room. Only one room remained, the low pitched grumble had increased in intensity as what was inside caught scent of them.
When Daryl tried the doorknob it was locked. Whoever had taken shelter inside had died inside. Stepping back, Daryl looked at Beth. "Ready," he mouthed the word voicelessly. Gripping her knife firmly Beth tensed. He would be off balance after he kicked open the door and there would be a split second when she would be the primary defense. Taking a deep breath Daryl smashed his foot against the door. The sound of splintering wood silenced the walker for only a moment. It had been pushed backward as the door crashed inward and had stumbled several steps. Daryl's bolt lodged squarely between its eyes and she, it had been a woman, crumpled to the floor.
There was a moment of silence as Beth quickly surveyed the room. A large double bed filled most of the space, as well as a small chair, a writing table, and in the corner and infant's crib. Above the crib a butterfly mobile quivered, set in motion by the force of the breaking door. The rooms was decorated in white eyelet and pink ribbon, flowers and butterflies danced across the papered walls. Whoever the young woman was who had turned here, she had been or was expecting to be, a mother. It was then Beth heard the muffled growl from the crib. Before Daryl could stop her she was beside the white baby bed. A soft pink blanket covered a wiggling lump in the middle of the crib. A cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach as Beth slowly peeled back the blanket. She already knew what she would find - an infant. Mewling, wordless sounds issued from its toothless mouth, its eyes clouded, its skin rotting, a heartbreaking parody of a joyous gift. It was dressed in white with tiny pink booties and a handmade sweater to match.
Beth could only imagine the young mother's horror as she watched her infant die and turn. Taking a firm grip on her knife, Beth gently rolled the tiny body onto its stomach, trying to ignore its feeble movements and pitiful voice. One quick puncture at the base of the skull would mercifully end it.
Daryl's hand on hers stopped her. She had been so absorbed in the tragedy, trying so hard not to cry, she hadn't been aware of him behind her.
"I'll do it," he offered.
Beth looked at him, saw the compassion in his eyes, the soft expression on his face. Daryl, the "I-ain't-afraid-of-nothin'" redneck had a tremendously soft heart when it came to children, and he was offering to save her the pain of ending this little one's existence.
"I can do this," she answered. "I need to do this." She knew this necessary action would be far more hurtful for him than it would be for her.
Daryl released her hand and stood back. Beth took a deep breath, then plunged the knife into the base of the baby's skull. It instantly stopped wiggling. Beth felt the tears welling in her eyes spilling out beyond her control. For a silent moment she wept for all the little ones they had lost. Tears still streaming down her face, she carefully laid the infant on its fluffy blanket swaddling her tightly, covering her discolored face with the soft fabric.
"Annabelle." Daryl's unexpected comment startled her. "Annabelle Marie. That's her name."
Quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands, Beth turned to where Daryl stood beside the paper littered desk, holding a small cloth bound book in his hand. "What are you doing?" she asked.
For a moment he seemed flustered. "Lookin' for a name." He gestured towards the journal. "She was writin' in this little book. Like you do." To him it seemed to be explanation enough
"You're not supposed to read other people's journals."
Daryl shrugged. "She's dead. Ain't a journal no more. Now its history."
It was history. Beth hadn't thought of it like that. Reading the journal now that its author was dead may be the only way anyone ever remembered the woman who wrote it.
Daryl shrugged and put the small book back on the writing desk. "She's about your size. We should see if there's some warm clothes that'd fit you."
"First we should bury them." Suddenly it seemed very important that these two no longer nameless people should simply be left to rot.
"We bury our own," Daryl answered bluntly. "Can't bury all of 'em."
"Then at least help me get her on the bed." Beth bent to lift the woman that had been a grieving mother.
Daryl gave her a look that bordered on disgust.
"I'd like to think someone would do the same for me," Beth said.
"Don't." For the briefest moment anxiety edged Daryl's voice and flitted across his face, then he looked down and away from her. "Don't talk like that." Without a further word he rested his crossbow against the door frame, bent down, scooped the fragile remains of the woman into his arms and placed her, not ungently, on the bed. Just as quickly he stepped away scrubbing the palms of his hands against the legs of his jeans as though to wash away the stench of death. He eyed the body warily, and Beth wondered if he expected her to rise one more time to threaten them.
Beth straightened her limbs into a position of repose and pulled the bed sheet up around the woman's frail body. Then lifting the tiny pink bundle from the crib, she nestled the infant, little Annabelle, into her mother's side, bending the woman's arm so, in final death, she caressed her infant daughter. It wasn't as good as a burial but better than being left like so much trash. Turning to the desk, she found a scrap of paper, wrote the baby's name, and tucked the scrap into a fold of the blanket.
Daryl waited by the door, a long sleeved shirt and warm sweater in his hands. He held them out to her. "Don't think she'd mind," he said simply.
No, Beth thought, she probably wouldn't. Without a second thought Beth took the offered clothing then picked up the journal from the desk before she looked around the room one more time. Like a shrine to what once was, this place had embodied hope and promise - promises of new life, of joy, of family. Joy and hope had become a mausoleum.
"Let's go," she said to Daryl, pulling the shattered door closed behind her and leading the way out of the house.