Chapter four of six for you, today. I hope you enjoy it. The woods in this chapter have been an interesting place to visit, as I wrote the last week or two.
But I can't say I'd want to live there.
The God of Death
Carol was frozen in place—just staring at the cross. She didn't realize it, but she was holding her breath.
The thing looked like it'd been there a good, long while. The skin on the hand was grey and withered—its fingernails stained with mold. Vines had grown up from the groundcover, through the summer, and wound their way around the crow's wing. Now the leaves were yellow and dead. The gentle wind pulled on them, there.
And Carol—that small breeze cut right through her. She curled into herself against the cold.
A sound broke the silence. Behind her—in the trees.
And again. Getting louder.
Something was crashing around out there. Clumsy. Slow.
She whipped around. Stared into the swelling shadows. Heard the underbrush breaking beneath slow footsteps. Another walker, maybe.
Or something else.
Carol breathed in—hard—and bolted in the other direction. Disappeared into the dense underbrush, and left the cross behind.
As evening settled in, Daryl found himself thinking about the walkers. How they'd wandered off and left him here, alone.
Everything was so quiet. He only had the sundress girl for company. She was lying there at his side, even now.
The smell was pretty bad—but that was the least of his worries.
Daryl looked her over. At his knife lodged there, in her eye. And he wondered, a bit, about who she was. What kind of story she would tell about herself, if she could.
Before she came after him—before he put her down—she was always next to the science teacher, in the crowd. Maybe they were used to that. Being together. Maybe they knew each other, before they died.
She had a ring on, so maybe he was her husband. One of those older guys who managed to snag some pretty little thing. Or he was her father, and he gave her away when she got that wedding band.
In any case, it didn't matter, now. They were dead. And the science teacher was long gone—wandered off who knows where. And wherever he was, he'd eat everything he could get his hands on. He'd keep on doing it until he got put down. Or until he rotted so bad he couldn't move, any more.
The girl was still here, though. So Daryl reached out. Pulled the wedding ring off her limp hand. Wanted to look at it. See if he could learn anything about who she was. How she got here.
The band caught the light as he turned it in his fingers. There was an engraving inside, in scrolling script:
Forever
And that's when she started talking to him.
"You've got my ring."
"Sorry," Daryl said, rolling onto his side, "Looks like you were plannin' on wearin' it forever."
And he took her hand, again. Slipped it back on her finger, for her. She threw him a little smile.
"That's ok. Forever's a long time."
The brush was dense, out this deep. So thick it finally became impassible. If Carol tried to push her way through, it'd tear her skin to shreds.
So she trailed along the outskirts—unsure where to go, or what to do.
It was getting dark. In front of her, the patterns of the branches covered the ground in long, tangled shadows.
And she knew someone was out here. Someone put that cross there. And whoever it was, it meant something to them.
She thought about it. The arm, the wing. The tree. Three different sorts of limbs, tied together. All alone in the deep woods, standing there like some primitive ward against evil.
Soon, she started coming onto paths cut into the mess of briars. Narrow little alleys—barely wide enough to pass through. Even from outside, she could see how rough and uneven they were. It seemed like they'd been hacked out by hand with brute determination—maybe with a hatchet, or a pair of shears.
And it was obvious, to Carol, why those paths were there.
Someone used them to move safely, and keep the walkers out.
Someone lived here.
And if someone lived here—someone who gathered up dead things. Someone who hid in the dark… that someone might have had a run-in with Daryl.
In that moment—in her heart—she was sure of it. Daryl met up with something different, on that hunting trip. Not just walkers. Something new that he didn't expect.
That's why he never came home, that day.
And the answer might be in that maze, or past it.
She stopped in front of one of those pathways. A long, narrow tunnel that went on and on, until it faded away into darkness.
Carol steeled herself up, as best she could, and made her way through the mouth of the maze.
"It's getting dark" Daryl murmured. He was watching the patterns of the tree branches moving on his boots—cast there by the long, low light.
The girl chuckled, lightly.
"I'll say."
And something about it. The tone of her voice—he didn't think she was talking about the sky.
He looked up into it. The clouds, painted with colors by the fading sun. Purples and pinks and rich orange—blended together like the colors on spilled motor oil. Like a puddle of the stuff in the driveway back home, while Merle worked on his bike on some short-lived visit.
Thinking of that, it all came back. The sound of the family dog's panting breath. The smell of Merle's cigarettes. The purr of the engine on that old Triumph, as they revved her on up. The sound of insects in the air. The heat of the sun. The kiss of summer wind gliding over their shoulders…
"I'm dying," Daryl said.
"Yeah. I think so."
He took that in. Tried to absorb it.
"What's it like? I mean… to die?"
"I dunno. Don't really remember it too good."
She shrugged.
"It's been a while."
The path was so tight, Carol had trouble getting through. The blunted ends of the branches scraped at her arms. Her shoulders. They pushed in on her, like they wanted to squeeze shut and enfold her.
She had to move through the thing sideways, in places. It was slow going.
Soon, she couldn't see the entrance anymore. Just darkness on all sides, with a patch of sky up above.
The old claustrophobia nagged at her—the bad kind she used to get when she was younger. Like an itch you can't scratch, that just got stronger over time.
Carol stopped in place. Tried to breathe. Leaned against the branches. Felt them pressing into her back. Looked up at the sky. At the stained glass colors of the sunset, soft and gentle and far away.
She'd promised herself a long time ago she wouldn't be afraid anymore. Not ever, ever again.
So she turned. Moved to keep going, and nearly put her foot into the bear trap on the ground.
She gasped. Jolted backwards—so she nearly fell over. Stared at the thing, breathing hard.
That trap was loaded—ready to spring. Overgrown with dead grass.
It would have shattered her ankle to slivers.
Her hand drifted to her chest. She could feel her heart beating under her fingers. And she knelt down to look at the trap. Those mean, steel teeth.
They were absolutely coated with scummy, dried old blood.
The thing had caught a lot of walkers in its time. Maybe other things, too. Someone checked it, every so often. Took away whatever was trapped there. Reset it each time, but didn't wipe it clean.
She started feeling sick.
"Keep it together," she whispered.
None of that mattered, right now. She had to keep moving. And she had to be careful.
So Carol stepped over the trap. Moved on, as the sunset faded away at her back.
For Daryl, having someone with him was strange, at first. It'd been a few days since he'd talked to someone. And for once, he kind of liked the company.
After all, nobody wants to die alone.
They were face to face in that ditch—close together. Talking quietly about what it was like to die.
"So," he said, "No one's gonna put me down when I change over, huh…"
It took a moment for the girl to answer.
"… It don't really look like it. I'm sorry."
"So I turn."
"So you do."
He looked at her. At his knife, buried deep in her eye.
He'd done that. But she couldn't return the favor.
"…what's it like? Wakin' up that way… bein' one of them things?"
She shrugged.
"Ain't so bad, really."
He chuckled, at that.
"What you gonna tell me? It's a way to meet new people? Gets you out in the fresh air?"
She smiled. His knife wobbled in her eye socket as she did it.
"Somethin' like that."
"Nah. You're just bullshittin' me."
Girls always wanted to make you feel better. But he wasn't having it. And as if she read his mind, she kept on going:
"I ain't bullshittin' you. I tell you, it ain't bad. When you're one of them, nothing's bad no more. Cause there ain't no bad or good. No hot or cold or happy or sad. There's… nothing."
She sighed.
"Just… nothing."
A little further on, Carol noticed the paths getting wider. Starting to merge together.
And there was another bear trap. And beyond that, another.
Finally, she came on one that had a foot stuck in it. Nothing else. Just the foot—torn from the leg, roughly at the ankle. It had a muddy, old sneaker on. A gym sock—stained and brown.
All around it, the ground was drenched with blood.
And that couldn't be from the foot. That thing was rotted and old. But the blood was fresh. It smeared all along the low branches, past that trap. Wet and red.
It made a trail. Whoever it belonged to, they'd left a path for her to follow.
So she followed it.
And it seemed to lead straight to the other side of the maze. Soon, the alleys opened up into a neatly cleared grove of ash trees.
She squinted. Tried to gain her bearings in the swelling dark. There was something hanging from the trees on strings. Rows and rows of somethings. White things—small. Like beads, or bits of bone.
She reached out. Touched the first of them. The string trembled, and filled the air with a quiet, rattling sound.
Teeth. They were human teeth. And as her eyes adjusted, Carol looked further into the mess. There had to be hundreds of them. Thousands. Gathered from walkers somebody killed. The strings were stained with black blood.
She couldn't stop now. So she moved into them. They hit her face and hands and arms. Fell against her cheeks—light and smooth—and then slid away again. And every move she made filled the air with a cascade of rattling noises, rippling from string to string to string.
And Carol remembered. Years ago—back at the quarry—they'd put cans on strings around the trees near the campsite. To make noise. So they could hear the walkers coming.
It hadn't worked.
She was thinking of that when she heard the sound behind her. That same, rattling sound of the teeth hitting against each other.
Something was coming.
Carol drew her knife.
She heard the walker snarling before she saw it. The one from the bear trap—missing its foot. Crawling on the dirt. When it noticed her, it tried to stand. Fell. Kept dragging itself forward. Trying again. Getting up, and toppling over. All around it, the teeth bounced and flailed on their strings.
Carol watched it fumbling its way forward. Pushing itself upright over and over and over again. It didn't know enough to realize its foot was gone. It just kept flailing around, all the same.
And she thought of Daryl. It was closing in on the third day since he'd been gone.
When she found him—if she found him, it could be like this.
The walker was just a yard away, now. Pushed itself up, and fell over again. Landed at Carol's feet.
So she kicked it in the face. Laid it out flat. Planted her boot on its chest, and stabbed it as hard as she could.
Daryl kept on staring at his boots. The twining silhouettes of the tree branches, there. Watched them fade as the sky grew dim. Slowly, they melded together with the nighttime darkness, and disappeared.
"What's your name?" he asked the girl.
"I don't got a name—I'm dead. None of us do."
He shook his head.
"Nah. No way. Merle—Merle. He's got one."
She looked at him, sadly. When she spoke, her voice was quiet.
"Ain't nobody named Merle, no more. That's just a name you've kept for yourself."
"He's gone."
"Yeah," she said, "He is."
"And me? … what the hell am I?"
"Well, Daryl… you're still here. You're not gone quite yet."
Past the ash grove, the trail of blood kept winding forward. Soon, Carol found herself into an open clearing. A campsite.
It was dirty. Had a faint smell of rotten food. There were empty crates on their sides, all around. Loose tarps flapped in the breeze.
On the ground, there were empty MRE packages scattered everywhere. Empty boxes of ammunition. At the side, Carol saw a neat row of plastic jugs—full of water.
As she moved further in, she started seeing long, thin strands of something on the ground.
Pieces of long, blonde hair. The wind picked up, and they floated in the updraft. One strand caught on Carol's finger, then blew away from her in slow swirls.
And the trail of blood led through the mess, straight to the solitary tent at the back.
Something in there was making sounds. It sighed. Moved.
"Daryl…?"
There was a gasp in there. Rustling.
It didn't sound like Daryl, to her.
Carol inched up to the tent flap. It was unzipped—flailing in the wind.
She caught it with one hand. Clung to Maggie's handgun with the other.
Carol ripped open the flap, and darted back with the gun raised.
There was a woman inside.
Curled up way at the back of the tent. Barely dressed—just a camisole. Underwear. Carol could see a mess of clothes and blankets strewn all around her.
And her hair… there were strands of it everywhere. All over the tent. Twined in her fingers. Covering the floor.
When the woman turned her face, Carol saw where she'd been ripping it out of her scalp.
It was getting colder.
Daryl huddled into his jacket. What remained of his shirt. The ditch had mostly dried out from the rain that first night. If it hadn't, he'd be freezing.
Really, that might've been better than what was happening. He'd always heard the cold was a pretty peaceful way to go.
The girl spoke up again. As if she didn't like him thinking that way.
"It'll be alright, Daryl."
It was that gentle tone girls sometimes use. The one that made him so skittish when they pulled it out:
"No matter what, it's all gonna be ok."
And she reached out. Touched his hair. He jerked his head back. But she just kept on talking:
"You can just sleep, now, if you want to."
And part of him… part of him did want to. She could hold him—stroke his hair—and he could just let go.
But when she laid a hand against his face, he pulled away again.
"Stop it."
"I'll stay with you the whole time."
"Stop talking."
She got persistent, then. Leaned in to look at him.
"You know… you put that ring on me—does that mean we're married?"
He let out a hard breath. Women always seemed to want to get their hooks into you.
And her tone changed, at that. She knew what he was thinking—and started getting angry. Leaned in closer—the knife hilt dangling down just above his face. And she threw her words at him—letting out sticky, dark spittle that smelled like blood:
"Shape your leg's in, you won't be gettin' very far once you change over. You'll be floppin' around like a wounded hound dog. Like the time your daddy saw Bud's leg was broke and he got out the shovel and—"
"Stop it."
"And that means we're gonna be spending a good long time together, you and me. Right here in this ditch. We're gonna share a grave, just like we really did get married—"
He grabbed her shoulders, and shouted in her face. The effort made him dizzy.
"Shut the fuck—"
"Forever, Daryl."
And he couldn't hold on anymore—couldn't fight her. He felt the blackness filling his vision. Swelling over him like a wave.
He could still hear her voice, as everything went dark.
"Forever…"
The woman was staring at Carol with blank horror. Did it for a good, long time.
Finally, she spoke up:
"You can't… you can't be here."
Her voice hitched in her throat. Carol lowered her gun, and stepped into the mouth of the tent.
"Hey, hey—it's ok. It's ok."
The woman looked like she was about to cry. She was biting one knuckle. Carol knelt at the front of the tent, and looked her over.
Her eyes were bright. Her face was pale. She was sweating. Carol knew those signs.
The woman was bit. Had the fever. The trail of blood that lead here must have come from the wound.
Poor thing.
Carol regrouped. Raised her free hand.
"I'm not going to hurt you, alright? Look—I'm putting this down…"
Carol lowered the gun to the floor of the tent, and let go. Left it there, and put up her hands. After a moment, she inched forward. Found herself inside with the woman. And out of the wind—in that nylon shell—it was quiet. Hushed. As if the two of them were separate from everything going on outside.
She knelt on the floor—surrounded by dirty blankets, and the acrid smell of old sweat. Carol could tell right away that the stuff hadn't been washed in years.
Some of the blankets were stained with fresh blood. From wherever the woman's bite was.
And the woman leaned forward. Got a good look at Carol—still staring at her as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
"You can't be here. You aren't one of those things. You're… you're alive…"
She shook her head. Some loose strands of hair fell down over her collar bone.
"We were wrong…" she whispered, as if it was hard to speak, "We were wrong about everything…"
Carol looked at her, questioningly, and she continued:
"We thought we were the only ones left…"
"Left?"
"Left alive. Just us... us and the dead."
Carol inched closer. Came up to the woman's side. And she let Carol lay a hand on her forehead.
She was burning up.
"You're bit, aren't you?"
She nodded. And without thinking about it, Carol stroked her face.
"What happened?"
"He didn't come back… He's the one who goes out. I stay here."
"Who, sweetheart?" Carol asked, holding her by the cheek, "Who goes out?"
The woman's eyes dropped down to her hand, lying in her lap. When Carol followed her gaze, she saw the wedding ring on the woman's finger.
Carol understood, then.
"There'd been a stag hanging around these woods, for a while, now. He told me all about it. A big one. And he wanted… wanted to find it. Bring it home. So he went off east of here, after it—and he never came back. I waited and waited and he just… didn't."
She let out a quiet sob. Leaned in close to Carol.
"Do you think he's dead out there? Is it—could he be dead?"
The stag. It had to be the one in the valley. The one she'd seen when she was out with the others. And the story started to come together in Carol's mind.
If this woman's husband met up with Daryl... if they were both out looking for the same stag... they may have met each other.
That couldn't have ended well.
Carol looked at her, waiting expectantly for some opinion on whether her husband was dead.
"I don't know," Carol said.
The woman sighed.
"I'm not supposed to go out there. Never. It's his rule. But I went looking…"
She pulled a bit of the blankets out of the way, and showed Carol her right ankle. There was a large, wet, seeping wound.
The walker—the one that got caught in the bear trap. It must have bit her, there. Then tried to follow trail of blood she left behind.
This woman barely made it out of her own camp before getting overcome.
And the woman—she pulled at her hair, then. Started tugging on a piece of it. Carol caught her hand, and drew it gently away.
"No, honey—don't. Leave that be."
But the woman was agitated. Seemed like she needed to do something with her hands. Fumbled at the blankets, and pulled out a Bible she'd had resting at her side. Moved to open it.
Without thinking, Carol took that away from her, too.
Somehow, it gave her a bad feeling.
And the spine immediately fell open in her hands—landed in one spot, as if it'd barely ever been opened anywhere else. And there was a passage on the page, underlined over and over again:
And the Lord will send a plague on all the nations that fought against Jerusalem. Their people will become like walking corpses, their flesh rotting away. Their eyes will rot in their sockets, and their tongues will rot in their mouths.
On that day they will be terrified, stricken by the Lord with great panic. They will fight their neighbors hand to hand.
And there was a photograph, stuck there—face down against the other side of the page, with a little bloodstain on one corner. Carol pulled it out. Turned it over. Saw three little boys.
The youngest was around three, and the oldest around ten. They were at the seashore, playing with buckets in the sand.
And Carol could tell there were no little boys in this campsite. Had never been.
The women whispered part of the passage out loud, then. As if she knew what page the Bible fell opened to. As if it was the only thing in the book that meant anything to her:
"And the Lord will be king over all the earth. On that day there will be one Lord—his name alone will be worshipped."
It left Carol cold.
This world—where death was turned into crosses. Where death hung from strings on the trees. Where a mother hid a bloodstained photograph in a Bible with a broken spine.
There was only one god in their world, and both of them knew his name.
Time passed. Carol sat with the woman. Didn't really know what to say, or do. Just left a hand on her shoulder.
Eventually, the woman took that hand. Held it. With the fever, her touch burned against Carol's cold fingers.
"You're freezing—soaking wet…" the woman said, "… why're you out here, all alone?"
Carol pulled her hand away.
"It doesn't matter."
"Here."
The woman fumbled with the blankets, again. Pulled some things out.
A shirt. Pants. A jacket. The clothes she'd stripped away.
Carol looked at them. Hesitated.
"Take them," the woman said, "I… I don't need them anymore."
She grabbed a canteen, and put it on top of the pile. The water sloshed around in it as it settled, there.
"Take them. Don't you see? You were sent here. You were sent here because we need each other..."
And she began to cry outright, then. And Carol didn't know what to say. Just sat. Stroked what remained of the woman's hair away from her face.
And the woman. She had her eyes fixed on something—on the floor, towards the mouth of the tent. Carol turned to look.
The gun. She was staring at Maggie's gun.
"Help me," she whispered, pulling Carol around to look at her.
And Carol—she didn't know what to say. Found herself going silent. But the woman pressed on:
"Please…"
Carol's gut was cold.
She looked down at her hands.
Months before—the day Merle died, he'd stopped to talk to Carol, a bit. And it was the only real conversation they'd ever had.
He'd been asking her if they had any whiskey—as if she'd gladly pour a glass for him and they'd toast to better times.
Merle. He was just the right brand of asshole to get her blood boiling. He'd only been talking for a little while, and Carol was already imagining herself throwing things at his smug face.
But then… then he said something. Something different from the usual bullshit. Something that made her think.
"You ain't like you was back in the camp. Little mouse runnin' around, scared of her own shadow..."
"It wasn't my shadow. It was my husband's."
"Well, you don't seem scared of nothin' anymore."
Carol looked up at him, standing on those stairs. And right then—after everything she'd been through—she was absolutely certain she knew the answer. She wasn't afraid to die. She wasn't afraid to fight.
She wasn't afraid at all.
And so she said it:
"I'm not."
In the ash grove, the nighttime wind blew through the trees. Rattled the teeth on their strings, in the dark.
A sound broke the quiet. A single gunshot. Bright and loud—then slowly echoing away to nothing.
A short time later, Carol made her way into that grove—wearing the change of clothes she'd been given—still warm from where the woman had been sitting on them. She had the canteen of water on her belt, next to Maggie's gun.
The clothes were dirty, but they were dry. Wrapped up in the woman's long, canvas jacket, Carol finally stopped shivering.
She'd been right. They needed each other.
Carol pushed through the teeth, fast and calm.
They didn't bother her, anymore.
When Daryl opened his eyes, again, he had trouble putting together what happened.
He must've blacked out for a while. Wasn't really sure how long. But he could see night had fallen. The sky was clear, now. Overflowing with stars, spilling out all over the wide, black canopy. The milky way stretched out over his valley—clear and bright and sparkling.
So Daryl looked up at it all. The stars. The thin, silvery sliver of the waning moon. The pale glow of it all over the trees.
And he realized the sundress girl had been pretty quiet since he came to. He turned his head towards her.
"Hey…"
He paused. He didn't hear anything, so he tried again:
"Hey."
Nothing. She was just lying there, limp and dead.
"You still there?"
Silence. As if she'd never talked to him at all.
And he let out a breath. He was alone, again.
Just as well. He'd been kind of worried about what she might say next.
He fumbled for the granola bar. Had forgotten about it for a good while, while the girl was talking.
He'd dropped the thing when he grabbed the girl by the shoulders. It was lying on the ground at his side. So be picked it up. Turned it over in his hand, again. Listened to the wrapper crinkling in the night.
And it reminded him of what he'd been thinking about women. How they cling so hard—like his mama in that bathrobe, grabbing him and tugging him close. How he didn't know what to goddamn do with them. How scared he got when they cried. How angry.
But Carol. Looking down at that granola bar she'd given him, he knew Carol wasn't like that.
She was alright.
That night, Carol hid herself against a glacial boulder, and the roots of an old oak tree.
She was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep. Just looked up at the moon. The spray of bright stars, above the tree branches.
East. That woman said her husband went east on his hunting trip.
So Carol would wait for the sun to start rising, and she'd follow it east. Go looking for the valley where she'd seen the stag, when she was out with the others.
Daryl might be there. Might have been tracking that stag.
She had to know.
And she wasn't sure what was going to happen. If she'd live, or die. If she'd find him. Nothing happened the way you expected, in this world.
All that horror, moving through that maze. The bear traps. Those teeth… and there was nothing behind it all but a sad, half-crazed woman, waiting to die.
Her face. That woman's face, as she begged Carol to kill her.
Things would never be the same.