tw: gore, implied rape, artistic license: biology
Can't Be Shaken Away
6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.
"Song of Myself", Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
Chapter One: And To Die is Different From What Anyone Supposed, and Luckier
Daryl walks in front of Joe's group, white-knuckle clenching his crossbow. He feels the eyes of these men on his back and they watch him like he is a wild animal. He knows these men. Not these specifically, but he knows them. Men who cared for nothing but themselves and their comfort. Men who only banded together in groups because it was easier to hurt others with a group of bullies egging you on.
Daryl knows them because he used to be one of them.
"So," Joe says, sauntering next to him. He takes a vicious bite of an apple. The crunch of it cuts through the air and Daryl notes, almost surreally, that the skin of the apple matches the blood he drew from Joe's nose when he'd punched him.
"Got sumtin' on your nose," Daryl says, motioning to his own face. Joe barks a laugh, spitting bits of apple into his beard.
"You're a funny son of a bitch," Joe says almost fondly, wiping his mouth. The blood remains. "You'll fit in well here. And once you're in, we help our own. What is it you're after?" Daryl's heart flips in his chest at the question.
"I'm lookin' for a black car," he starts slowly. "Cross on the back windshield."
"Yeah?" Joe says, all ease and friendliness, the kind that Merle was. An ugliness seeps into Daryl's heart and his chest clenches with a heavy pain at the thought of Merle. He pushes it aside.
"Yeah," he says. He pauses a moment, thinking of what to say. "They…took sumtin' of mine."
"Well, hell," Joe says, clapping him on the shoulder. Daryl stiffens then forces himself to relax with a tight smile. "Don't worry brother-we'll help you get your shit back. You just be sure to give us a cut!" Joe laughs again, that same wild and almost high pitched laugh that spilled from his mouth after Daryl punched him. His laugh reminds him of Merle's laugh, crazed and wild, and he sees the other men in the group visibly relax. He's been given the seal of Joe's approval. He's on his way to becoming one of them.
"Yeah," Daryl says. "I'll give you sumtin'." Joe smiles that easy-murderous, Daryl thinks. Selfish.-smile and Daryl can't help but think that Merle would like this man, would approve of this group if he had never met Rick and realized what goodness was in him that their father hadn't been able to beat out of him.
He can't tell them about Beth.
Daryl is the first thing that she thinks, closely followed by the words Where? and cold. She doesn't make a sound or cry out. She doesn't move in any way. That's what he taught her. Wait. Wait and see. Use more than your eyes. Patience. His voice plays in her head and she feels an ache she can't name.
Her head hurts. Hot pain blossoms from the back of her head, pounding with a dull ache, and contrasts with the cold she feels beneath her fingertips. Smooth metal greets her fingers. She breathes in deeply but evenly so whoever is around will think she's still out. The sting of bleach and the slight smell of formaldehyde underneath hits her nose. Even the air is cold.
She takes a risk and slowly opens her eyes. The darkness almost overwhelms her and she catches a whimper in her throat. She silently tells herself not to panic, not to scream, to read the signs. She scans for movement and doesn't see anything except dark shapes. She reaches a tentative hand out to the lump nearest to her and feels scratchy fabric caressing her fingertips, like that of the Sunday suits her father used to wear. Tears well up in her eyes.
No, she thinks. Not yet. Crying is for when you are safe.
A light comes on as though God Himself flipped the switch and her heart leaps in her throat. A dead man lies on a metal gurney next to her, dressed in his Sunday best and a peaceful expression on his slack face. She shuts her eyes as she hears footsteps echo down a staircase. She works to control her breathing, to make it easy and smooth as though she were asleep, but she feels her breath hitch in her throat and blind hysteria fighting to claw its way through her chest.
"Oh, child," she hears an unfamiliar voice softly say and she thinks to herself that he's found her out and he knows she's awake and Oh God, I don't want to die! I don't want to be just another dead girl! But a hand simply rests on her head and gently rustles her hair.
"Let us pray," the voice says. Beth hears the rustling of papers, as though a book has been opened. "'Is any man sick among you? Let him bring in the priests of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith shall save the sick man: and the Lord shall raise him up: and if he be in sins, they shall be forgiven him.'" Luke 14-15, she thinks. She recognizes the scripture from hearing her father preach it so often. Grief, white-hot and burning, burdens her heart but she forces herself to focus. " God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." The man's voice hitches and she knows he's almost done with his speech.
He's reading her last rites and she'll be damned if they're the last words she'll ever hear.
"May the Lord God protect you, and lead you to everlasting life." She feels the cold pain of a needle and that spurs her into her attack. She sits up with a barbaric yawp, an ugly and twisted cry, and shoves at the man. He's aged, white-haired-like her father-and he drops his Bible with a startled yelp. The syringe hangs from her arm and she reaches for it. The man recovers, pushing himself up and lunging at her. She screams, ducking out of his way. He grabs her hair and yanks, ripping a fistful of hair from her scalp. She cries out, turning to face him. He stands, chest heaving and blonde strands hanging from his clenched fist. He charges her again, knocking into her. She falls onto the cold concrete with a heavy smack and feels hands reaching for her throat.
"No!" she screams. She fights him, struggling to keep his hands from her throat. "I won't!" The smell of death is so thick she can hardly breathe.
"I won't let you kill me!" she shrieks. Her hand tightens around the syringe. She lifts it up, wielding it like a knife. His eyes are alight with a madness and she sees herself reflected in them. Her eyes are wide but not only with fear; her blinding rage stares back at her from those mad eyes. His fingers brush across her throat and try to tighten around her neck. She screams again but all the fear has left her. The walls echo with her deafening rage.
The needle of the syringe buries itself in his left eye and he howls. Blood runs down his face and spurts onto hers. He rolls off of her and his howls turn to pitiful whimpers. She scurries away from him, watching him clutch his face in abject horror. Hot and sticky blood clings to her face as though trying to burn her alive. The man's howls die down, nothing more than pitiful whimpers. His hands reach forward as though reaching out to hold her. She slowly stands, shaking down to her bones, and carefully walks next to him. His hand grabs her ankle weakly and she kicks it away. She looks down at him, weak and pitiful and grey hair matted with blood. His face points toward the ground, syringe still sticking out of his eye socket, and a dreadful keening builds in his throat.
Beth feels a sick sense of purpose rush over her in a wave. She stops shaking and lifts her good foot. Balancing on her injured ankle hurts but it's only for a minute. She stomps down on the man's head, ignoring the sound of shattering glass as the syringe buries down deeper into the man's head. She tries to hold back a sob but it spills from her mouth, desperate and hungry. She keeps stomping until he stops moving, until she can't hear the splashes of blood over her sobbing. She stumbles away from him, tripping over limbs and his fallen Bible soaked in blood. She collapses on the stairs and sobs, bringing her fist to her mouth in an effort to keep quiet. She doesn't know who else is here, doesn't know where she is and she's never wanted to see Daryl so bad in her life.
She cries, hugging her knees to her chest and watching hot tears mixed with blood darkly stain her jeans. She hears a low, guttural groan, the same one that haunts her nightmares, and she closes her eyes.
Daryl follows the tracks in the mud, crouching down to get a better look at them. It'd rained earlier in the day and so the group had set up a meager camp. The earth smells like it was fresh and new. He inhales deeply, ignoring the stare that his companion gives him. Joe had sent him out to hunt for them but he hadn't trusted Daryl to go out on his own.
"Safer to have someone watch your back," he had said with that same easy and murderous grin, yellowed teeth bared like a wild animal's. Yeah, safer to have someone watch my back my redneck ass,Daryl thinks. He knows Joe sent this man to keep an eye on him, to make sure he comes back. The mere promise of new loot would be too much for old bandit leader to give up on. Besides, Daryl knows how he looks. He looks like a bandit. Joe's looking to recruit.
After all, why hurt yourself when you can hurt other people?
Daryl shakes his head, standing up.
"Went this way," he says. "Looks like it might be a fawn."
"A what?" the other man says, shaking water from his face.
"A young deer," Daryl replies. He keeps moving through the mud and muck, ignoring the grumbling and shivering man following behind him. "Come on, princess, step up the pace!" The man growls but doesn't reply. He hadn't been much help tracking and Daryl already had to jump his ass for scaring away the other wildlife they'd encountered. They hadn't seen many walkers. Daryl noticed that those walking dead things didn't do so well in the wet and cold. He eyes the broken glimpses of road he can see through the trees and silently curses the man on his tail. It would be so easy to get out of here if he'd just kill him and run.
He looks at the shivering, sniffling man and back toward the tracks. Nah, he thinks. One thing hadn't changed; Daryl wasn't a murderer and he wasn't suicidal. He wouldn't kill a man that hadn't attacked him and, regardless, he didn't think he'd lose the rest of the group; He knew he wasn't the only hunter in this group of men. Joe looked like the kind of guy who could hunt you for days and never get tired. That kind of tenacious and vicious air seemed to roll off of him.
He'd play this one by ear, break when he had the chance, and preferably before he found Beth. Because he was going to find her or die trying.
He hears the soft snapping of twigs. He lifts his crossbow, aiming it toward the sound. The fawn they'd been tracking wanders through the underbrush. The man next to him moves to open his mouth but Daryl hisses a sharp 'shhhh!' in his direction. Christ, even Beth knew when to be quiet-
The thought of her makes his chest ache and he pushes it down into that place in his heart reserved for all the painful memories; memories of Rick, of Merle, of Carol, the prison. He pushes her into the dark shadows of his heart reserved for loss but he swears he won't keep her there. He has to find her.
He has to.
He shoots his crossbow and the arrow impales the deer's head with a satisfying 'thwack!' The deer falls to the ground, crunching leaves and twigs underneath its body weight. Daryl moves over to the animal, shouldering his crossbow. Blood stands out in garish clarity against the muddy earth. The fawn takes in a shuddering breath and Daryl winces at the fact it's still alive. Its wide brown eyes stare up at him almost accusingly. Daryl unsheathes the knife from his boot and brings in down into the animal's neck, putting it out of its misery. He absently the top of the deer's head before pulling his knife out. He wipes it off on his jeans and puts it back in its sheath before removing the arrow.
"C'mon," Daryl says, motioning to the other man. He sets his backpack on the ground and opens it, retrieving some rope he and Beth had scavenged. He begins to tie it around the fawn's ankles. "Help me string this up."
"Why?" the man says, looking around nervously. "Let's just take it back to camp."
"Nah," Daryl says, tightening the knots he'd made. "We gotta let it drain of blood first. If we don't, blood it'll leak out of it and leave a trail, leading walkers to our camp like fuckin' bread crumbs."
The man nods and moves over to help Daryl. They string the fawn up from a low hanging branch, Daryl cutting it up to expedite the blood flow. Blood begins to pool in a dark puddle underneath.
"Keep your guard up," Daryl says, motioning to the man's gun. He glares at Daryl, gripping his gun tight against his shoulder. Guttural groans echo from the trees but they're quiet and far apart. There couldn't be more than two, maybe three tops. He aims his crossbow toward the woods and shoots when he sees rotted flesh poke out between green leaves.
"Hey!" A voice calls and another member of their group stumbles from the underbrush behind them. Daryl jumps, spinning around to face him.
"What the hell, man?" he demands. The man rolls his shoulders, a dreamy look on his face, and he grins, revealing bloody teeth. He aims his gun at Daryl and Daryl tenses, ready to move out of the way. He shoots past him, hitting another walker wandering in the trees.
"Come on," he says, motioning to them. "Grab the deer. We found a new place to camp." Daryl eyes him suspiciously before going to retrieve his arrows. The other man that came with him cuts the fawn down and Daryl hisses because now the rope is shorter and probably useless to him. He glares and lets the man carry the deer over his shoulder.
"Where's this new camp?" Daryl asks gruffly. The man who came to find them motions him along excitedly, speaking quickly.
"We came across a small group," he says, and Daryl hisses through his teeth. "They put a fight, but not much of one. They had a fuckin' haul on them, though." He leads them through the trees without another word until they hit a sound trap. Daryl steps over the wire and looks up into the camp. Tents are set up and the coppery smell of blood covers the smell of wet earth. He sees slumped, dead bodies lying in the mud and his stomach tightens when he begins to count them. He acts nonchalant but looks closely at the bodies. He breathes easier when he doesn't recognize the dead but the sickness he feels doesn't lessen. He moves further into the camp to hear the bandits laughing. He looks up to see Joe and the others grinning at him. Daryl's heart freezes in his chest when he sees the woman they tied to a tree, stripped bare and growling. Her jaws snap toward the men futilely and one of them throws a knife that gets stuck in one of her breasts. The men laugh harder and Joe motions him over. Daryl's eyes are transfixed on the dead women-walker-and the way her dirty blonde hair hangs over a ruined face.
"Sorry, brother," Joe says by way of greeting. "We tried to save her for you but she was a hell of a wildcat." He turns his cheek to show Daryl the deep crimson gashes that are still weeping blood.
"S'ok," Daryl forces himself to say, eyes still fixed on the dead girl. She moves her face toward him, snarling, and he could weep with relief when he sees it isn't Beth. "'M a little tired. Huntin' and all."
"I don't see how you're tired," the man who went with him grumbles, dropping the fawn from his shoulder. "I did all the work."
"Sure did," Daryl says, no inflection in his voice. Joe motions to the walker.
"You wanna try?" he asks. "We're doin' a little experiment to see how much damage one of these fuckers can take." Daryl watches the men wound the walker with bullets and knifes, laughing as if it were the funniest joke in the world. "It'd be good to see what that weapon of yours can do, bowman."
Killing them isn't supposed to be fun! He remembers her voice and tries not to savor it before pushing the thought of her back down. He aims his crossbow and shoots jerkily. The arrow lodges in the walker's forehead and she stops moving. The other men groan and swear, their smiles gone.
"Sorry," Daryl grunts, not sorry at all. He pushes past them and grabs his arrow. The woman slumps forward, bleeding on his arm, and he tells himself over and over; It ain't Beth. It ain't Beth!
"Force of habit." Joe watches him with his smile frozen on his face. Daryl can see the gears turning behind his eyes and can't help but think that he's given away a deadly secret and now Joe is one step ahead of this game they're playing. He holds the other man's gaze defiantly and Joe shakes his head, finally looking away.
"You must be good if you can get a headshot without even thinkin'," he says, his voice thoughtful but hard as stone. He looks up again and all of the tension is gone from his face. "Well, what the hell are you pussies waitin' for! Let's get to cooking that deer!"
Beth opens her eyes. The man- walker-begins to move. She shoots to her feet and turns to flee up the stairs. She pushes herself as fast as she can, hearing the walker's raspy growls echoing around her. With a strangled cry she reaches the door, turning the lock and slamming it shut behind her. A thud follows against the door and she backs away, eyes transfixed on the pulsating wood. She looks to the in-table next to the door and limps toward it. She pushes it in front of the door, breathing heavily. The walker keeps slamming against the door but it doesn't budge. She backs away, watching it and expecting it to crack. It holds fast, and she stays quiet. Eventually, the walker stops slamming against it and she hears a thud, as though it is falling down the stairs. She lets out a shaky breath and looks around.
The house is immaculately clean, like the one she and Daryl had found. She wanders through the hall, looking around and listening. The house remains quiet except for the occasional thud from the walker-the man she'd just killed- in the basement. Hot tears stream down her face but she doesn't sob. She rounds the corner to see another viewing room with a dead body in a coffin.
It's beautiful, she remembers saying. Someone remembered these things were people, once upon a time.
Don't you think that's beautiful?
She wipes her face and sniffs. She ignores how she's covered in blood, how she was covered in blood before she came here, and moves on. She finds a small kitchen, better stocked than the last one, and sighs in relief. She closes the door behind her-Just in case, she thinks. Walkers couldn't open doors. She limps to the counter and grabs a large kitchen knife out of a cutting block. It isn't her old one, and it isn't a gun, but it's better than no weapon at all. She puts it in the empty sheath on her belt . She opens the cabinets to see a veritable cornucopia of food. The first thing she reaches for is a gallon of water. She slumps against the counter and pops the lid open, greedily drinking the water down as fast as she can. Some of it dribbles down her chin onto her shirt but she can't bring herself to care.
She pulls the water from her mouth with a deep gasp, setting it down on the counter. She looks up at the stash of food, nodding to herself. Best stock up on supplies. It wasn't like the owner was going to need them anymore. She looks out the kitchen window to see the sun coming up, sunlight sparkling over the cracked asphalt of the road. She eyes the food again, deciding to come back for it. First thing's first, she needs to scavenge supplies. Then, she could leave and find Daryl.
He could be dead, the thought creeps up on her like darkness creeping over the sky. She shakes her head firmly.
"No," she says to herself. "No." If anyone could have made it out of that mess, it was Daryl. She just had to find him.
She had to.