The dreams are never good.
The visual is horrible enough as it is, but every other sense has been commandeered by memories he longs to forget, but knows cannot be forgotten. So the scenes that replay before his eyes are accompanied by screams and sadistic laughter, the reek of sweat, piss and blood, and the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed to his temple, sapping the heat from his skin. He is hyper-aware of himself; his heartbeat throbs in his ears, sweat and tears crawl down his face, his chest heaves with every breath. He raises his eyes to the person behind him, their face obscured by a balaclava. The man – or is it a woman? – presses the gun barrel back into his temple and forcibly turns his head back. He has no choice but to see.
He wishes it would stop. He wishes they would stop. Failing that, he wishes he would stop. He wants his lungs to stop their frenzied inspiration, his heart to cease hammering violently against his sternum, but out of habit he keeps fighting for his life. He could look away, or try to move, and earn a bullet in his head, and he wouldn't have to watch anymore. He wishes he had the nerve to do so.
He hates his assailants. He never stopped hating them. But where hate is a motivator, fear is a paralytic, and his fear has taken over. It keeps him kneeling on the forest floor, watching the appalling scene unfold before him. God, he wished they would just kill them, end this quickly. He wishes he was brave enough to make them. He hates them, but not as much as he hates himself.
Ben Paul jerks awake, letting out a strangled cry as the muscles in his stomach contract, forcing him into a stiff sitting position. The blankets slip off of him as he gasps for air, exposing his ropey arms to the chill of late Autumn. His bedclothes and underwear are drenched in cold sweat. The rest of his clothes (a pair of tattered jeans, a red hooded sweater and a letterman jacket) are tucked under the covers at the foot of the bed, a trick to keep them relatively warm. He finds them with his foot now, as if the denim and cotton-polyester blends will somehow bring him comfort. It doesn't work.
"Oh shit oh shit oh shit…" He repeats this mantra to himself as he attempts to calm down, with limited success. He can barely hear his own desperate whispering over the sounds of Doug's grunting snores from the next room. After a few moments, he manages to stop hyperventilating.
It takes the panicky student a few moments to realise that the trails on his face are not sweat, but tears, and by the time he does so it is almost too late. There is a light knock at the door. Ben hurriedly wipes his face, trying his best to get rid of the tear tracks, and swings his long legs over the edge of the bed. He snatches his jacket from under the covers and hastily pulls it on over his undershirt, and at the same time his feet slip into his battered trainers. He crosses the room to open the door. He assumes that someone is coming to collect him for a shift on watch, but when he turns his gaze to the RV, he sees Kenny seated on the lawn chair atop it, a hunting rifle across his lap. The middle-aged ex-fisherman fails to notice Ben, focussing instead on the world outside the Motor Inn. Meanwhile, Ben's fatigued brain comes to the conclusion that he must have been hearing things.
"Ben?"
Clementine. Of course it would be Clementine. Ben curses his own stupidity and looks down to see the dainty eight-year-old girl standing on the threshold, shivering slightly in the autumnal breeze.
"Clementine!" He quickly takes the jacket off and drapes it over her skinny shoulders. It swamps her, but at least she is warm. He suddenly becomes uncomfortably aware of the fact he is standing in front of a small child in his underpants and the sheer awkwardness of it causes him to blush furiously. "Are you looking for Lee? He's on your other side."
"I heard you shout. Are you okay?" she answers. Ben turns his gaze to the doorframe. As much as he wishes he had somebody to talk to, he decides against involving Clem and scarring her for life with the truth.
"Yeah, I'm okay," he lies. He instantly feels awful. Lying to Clem, he's found, isn't quite like lying to anyone else.
"You don't seem okay," she protests, and Ben's hope that his answer would be enough to convince her is proved futile. He looks down at her. Her tawny eyes meet his in the darkness, full of empathy or sympathy, Ben can't quite decipher which one. Whichever it is, she can read him well.
"I had a nightmare, that's all," he explains. "I've been having them for a while now."
Clementine looks at the floor. "I'm sorry," she says, dolefully. There is a brief pause. "When I had a nightmare, I used to climb into bed with my parents." She pauses, and when she speaks again her voice is painfully melancholy. "I miss them."
To Ben's utter horror, Clementine starts to cry. She's almost silent, and Ben is visited by the notion that she's trying not to wake anyone else up. The thought causes a lump to rise in his throat. He stands there, despondent for a brief moment, trying to figure out what Lee would do (she is closest to him, after all), but all he can think to do is drop to his knees and pull the weeping child into a hug. Clementine buries her face in his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she sobs. "Lee says I need to be tough…"
"You're a lot tougher than I am," says Ben. Clem lets out a half-giggle, and sniffs loudly. "No, really. Lee said you'd been on your own in a tree house for three days. If I was alone, I'd be dead in five minutes."
Clementine pulls away and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. The red fabric of the hooded sweater, emblazoned with the word "Brooklyn," darkens with the moisture. The hoody was one of the many spoils obtained from the trunk of a station wagon abandoned in the woods, to which they'd helped themselves. Lilly still had her reservations about the idea, but if it would help them survive, Ben wasn't going to argue. Still, he couldn't help but wonder who had owned the station wagon, and where they might be now.
"Do you miss your parents?" Clementine asks, drawing Ben unceremoniously out of his reverie.
"Yeah," he answers, morosely. "And my sister." The conversation is heading into dangerous territory, and Ben swerves accordingly. "Hell, I miss all sorts of stuff. Stuff I never thought I'd miss. Like…bumper stickers, and comic books. And Paris Hilton."
"Who's Paris Hilton?" asks Clementine.
"Believe me, Clementine, the less you know, the better off you'll be," Ben replies, bluntly. Clementine gives him a curious look in return, which Ben is sure isn't entirely down to Paris Hilton, but her stare is punctured by a large yawn. Ben smiles reassuringly at the exhausted girl. "It's pretty late. Do you want me to come tuck you in…or something?"
Clem gives him a slightly mischievous smile. "No, thanks."
"Okay," Ben replies, getting to his feet. "Night, Clem."
He turns around to head back to bed, dreading what he might see for the rest of the night hours. His midnight discussion with Clementine, a sweet little oasis of calm, would do nothing to stave off the visions that waited for him in sleep. He closes his eyes to take a few deep breaths before he kicks his shoes off and lifts the covers. Thankfully, they are still warm. He twists into a more comfortable position, until he's back facing the door with his legs splayed out below him, seeking out the warmest parts of the mattress. At least he won't have trouble dropping off.
The door closes, and he assumes that Clementine has returned to her room. However, a few seconds later, the mattress shifts beneath him, jerking him into alertness once again. For a horrible moment, he wonders if there is something inside the mattress, but as he gazes down, he is proven wrong. A warm feeling trickles down his throat and settles somewhere in his stomach, lifting his mood to an extent he would not have believed possible a few minutes ago. And, for the first time in a long while, his face splits in a genuine smile.
Clementine has scrambled onto the bed on top of the covers (with the letterman jacket still covering her) and is now curled up beside him in the foetal position, a faint smile on her face. Any concerns about post-sleep embarrassment fall flat in the face of how exhausted Ben is, and how exhausted she must be. Deciding to give awkwardness and odd looks their chance in the morning, he makes no effort to shift the little girl off the bed. If she's settled there, he's not going to disturb her rest.
The letterman jacket is still draped over her, but it is clearly not enough to protect her from the cold; she is shivering. For once in his life, Ben knows exactly what to do. He grips the edge of the blanket and folds it back to cover the sleepy girl, tucking it under her tiny body to form a makeshift cocoon of warmth. She instantly stops shivering and murmurs contentedly.
"You warm enough, Clem?" he asks, in a whisper.
"Yep." She snuggles a little closer to him, so that her back is pressed against his arm through the blanket. "'Night, Ben."
She does not speak after that, but her slow, steady breathing indicates that she has fallen asleep. Ben's eyelids begin to droop. Neither Doug's loud snores, nor the occasional grating moan of a walker outside the barricade can prevent him from drifting off. After a few minutes, he slips into unconsciousness.
And, for tonight at least, the dreams do not return to plague him.