It stank.
Not that it mattered, much. Everything stunk since it happened. The scent of rotting flesh hung in the air - even outside where the trees were in charge. But here it stank more. Because there was a corpse left to rot, still slumped against the wall with a bullet in its brain. She could barely stand it. She knew she was in a basement. She recognized the way light filtered through a window high on the wall - ground level. She just wished she didn't have to share her space with corpses. She wished the window itself wasn't smeared with blood that was now an ugly brown.
She'd been left a bottle of water but she hadn't opened it. Hadn't even checked to see if it was a new bottle, or one that had been refilled. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to be here at all. Instead she sat against the wall, propped up on a dingy couch cushion that had been thrown into the floor. The bottle of water bothered her. She hated that stupid bottle of water. It represented him in her mind. Clean and sparkling and a fucking trap.
She glared at it as she pouted. She'd already scoured the space for something to use as a weapon. There wasn't anything. And the make-shift cage that was made of razor-wire nailed into the wall was enough encouragement for Beth to sit still. She wondered if other girls had come down to this basement. How long they had stayed. How long they had lasted. Her mind spun for hours, and she remembered the movies she would watch. About murderers who tortured their victims. Or kid-nappers who tried to make their victims fall in love with them. What was it called? Stalkam syndrome? She couldn't remember. Facts like that weren't really important now. The point was that the basement smelled like death.
But under that - horrifyingly under that - was the smell of antiseptic. Of amonia or bleach or both. And in this world of dirt and grime and decay - that scent scared her the most. A walker? She could've handled a walker or two. Hell, even someone just a little crazy after everything would have been better than the quiet man who had hauled her out of the grass and into the trunk of his car. He was dressed for church. In a gray suit and sleek shoes. He wore glasses that seemed too thick. And he wore make-up, she had realized, when she noticed a smear of it on her arm.
She had struggled but she hadn't screamed. Screaming was a danger, though she had hoped Daryl would see. Fire an arrow into the man's back as he subdued her. But she was past that. Her only hope was to escape. Or to have Daryl fly through the front door with his cross-bow at the ready. She knew everything at the funeral home had been a trap. She was worried about how much they had been watching. How many there were. She'd only seen the one. But that didn't mean anything. That didn't mean a damn thing.
Her eyes were wide as the sun went down again. But still she didn't sleep. And finally she heard a door open, and steps leading down. Why did he wait until night time? Hopefully she wouldn't ever know.
"What's your name?" he asked. He had a voice like smooth cream. It was light enough to have been a singer - but still rich. Still strong, though the mild lilt did it justice.
"Let me go," she demanded.
"What's your name?" he repeated. It was then that she noticed what he carried. A bucket.
"Let me go," she demanded. She didn't know what else to do. Because she didn't care who he was or why he had her. She just want out. And she was afraid to ask why he took her.
"What's your name?" he asked again. He shouted it this time. She jumped. And didn't speak. He heaved the bucket, and water landed on her. A shock. She yelped. And then he laughed. A sighing, exasperated laugh. She felt as though he were smiling. "One more time," he said. "What's your name?" She shook. The chill in the room was already more noticeable. And the water had been cold. Well-water.
"Please," she said. Wondering if his sympathies were the way to go. "Please. Let me go!"
"Fine!" he shouted now. "I don't need a name. I'll invent one for you. Your eulogy should be about you, though. You'll have to tell me something. But I'm going to sleep. You just think about what's important to you. You just think about it. And I'll think up a name." He hurried up the stairs.
She stared blankly after him, a shiver running through her. Eulogy. Eulogy? But she wasn't dead! She wasn't dead.