I couldn't stop writing, again, and this is ready. I sat down with it in the evening and it just poured out... that was that. But a warning: this chapter is fairly intense, and it has some oblique references to sexual violence. None is shown or described, but take that for what it is.
This will be a pretty tense place to leave off for a while, I know, but I have some conference papers and other professional-type writing projects that require my full attention. So there may be a delay before we continue the thread. Academia, she is— well, not a harsh mistress at all really— but she wants me to spend some time with her exclusively. Jealous of these Dixons, I suppose.
Do let me know what you think. And wish me luck off in the land of much-less-fun but much-more-necessary-to-my-being-fed writing.
Broken:
The herd that would overtake the camp started with a single walker.
Days before, a body was lying on the ground, still and dead. And when her eyes opened that first time, she saw a blue sky above her. She was laid out on the asphalt, next to the remains of a ruined car. She pushed herself upright, taking in the sounds, scanning the road for signs of life.
A squawking bird made her dart her head around. There was a crow about a foot away, hopping back and forth on the pavement. It had spent the majority of the morning pecking at her arms. Now that those arms were moving, it darted away from her, nervously. She tried to grab for it, and it jumped even further down the street.
She snarled, tilted her head—captivated by the movement of those fluttering wings. The bird called out to the rest of the flock—scattered all around up on the telephone wires above—then lit off into the air.
As if they shared one mind, the others started to follow that first crow, flying off to the west. She watched them go—high above her reach. She strained out for them with her ruined arms.
Then she rose, stepped forward, and started heading west, too.
The hands reached for him.
Daryl burst upright on the cot with a hard gasp. His heart was racing. He looked around the darkness. He had no idea where he was.
And for a moment, he felt sure he was at his daddy's house. He could see the cracks in the paint on the wall across from his bed. The dusty windows and empty shelves. Then he heard the sounds of commotion from outside, and reality settled in for him. He was at the emergency shelter. In the tent.
It was just a nightmare. A strange, abstract nightmare about home. Home… and white sheets.
White sheets, sunlight, and a girl's hands.
It began to fade away and he lost the thread. But it left him feeling so rattled he couldn't possibly lay back down again. He exhaled deeply. Swung his legs to the floor and looked for his boots.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something. The cot across from him. Merle wasn't there.
Daryl frowned. As he pulled on his boots, that bad feeling that had made it so hard to fall asleep took up a fresh assault.
Find Merle, it said.
Find him before it's too late.
Too late for what, Daryl didn't know.
By the time she reached the center of town, that single walker had gathered a dozen others around her. One saw her from the alley between storefronts. One wandered out of a neatly fenced herb garden. They gathered around each other, trailing along in a loose mass of bodies. They moved like the long-since forgotten crows when they flew from the line.
As they approached what was once a savings and loan, a series of gunshots rang out around them. Three living men darted out from the side of the building. There were more dead behind them—and more creeping out from wherever they hid, drawn through the streets by the shots. The men rushed into the roadway.
"Oh shit!" one whispered, breathing heavy, stopping in his tracks when he saw the group on the street heading towards them.
They were surrounded. One of them took aim, and the first walker—the one who had followed the crows—crumpled to the pavement. And a few more followed.
But the three men were surrounded. One fired from the rear, trying to clear a path for the other two. Those two made it to their truck. The third did not.
When the two reached their old Ford, they jumped in as fast as they could—nothing in their hands but the guns. The supplies they'd been out hunting for had long since been dropped in the chase. They turned it on and the Ford sprang to life.
As the two swung the truck around, they saw their friend had already been taken.
The dead feasted on every scrap of the remains until nighttime, when there was nothing left but bone and marrow. In the still night darkness—deep and black since the power had cut out—any light could be seen at a great stretch. So when a passing car crossed the intersection a half mile away, the momentary flicker of the headlights pierced the darkness like a blade.
And the crowd started moving again.
The camp was relatively quiet, but Daryl could sense the signs of life teaming everywhere. That bad feeling continued to grow. It was more than Merle… something else was off… something bigger was wrong.
He didn't realize it consciously, but he hadn't seen a single National Guardsman since he'd left his tent.
Daryl stepped out onto that close, makeshift road. It was very dark. The tents glowed pale and bright against the hazy moonlight, filtered and diffused by a gathering of clouds.
The old man was still singing, very quietly, down the way.
"Went out last night for to take a little 'round—and I met little Janie and I shot her down."
Daryl's head darted in the direction of the voice. Did he hear that right?
"Then I went on home and I got into bed with a .44 Smokeless under my head..."
Standing there, he shook his head to himself—he couldn't decide if he'd heard what he thought he heard. And he turned away.
He'd had enough music for now.
So he walked off in the other direction, always scanning the shadows for some sign of Merle. The music echoed and faded—sounded muffled and strange as he walked on. The old man strummed a bit, wandered through some other tunes and back again.
As his voice faded out of earshot, he went into a long and, to Daryl's mind, deeply topical rendition of The Times, They Are A'Changin'.
The herd reached a main highway.
As they traveled along the roads—empty in parts, clogged with wrecked cars in others, they started gathering more. They spread out, wandering in a wide swath across the countryside. Always gathering whichever dead were scattered there. Fifty, sixty—eighty. More.
A day later, the roar of two motorcycle engines echoed loudly, somewhere in the distance. The sound was diffuse and hard to pin down, but they turned in its general direction, moving through thick, grassy fields and onto the rural route that paralleled the highway.
A fox ran across the road in front of them, there, and they chased it into the fields.
It easily got away.
Daryl had cycled through half the camp, and came back to the edge where he started. He would check the tent again, see if Merle had returned. Then he'd start out on another pass.
The old-time music continued.
"Ain't you glad—Ain't you glad, that the blood done signed my name?
On my hands, on my hands—yeah, the blood done signed my name.
On my hands, on my hands—yeah, the blood done signed my name.
Oh the blood done signed my name."
A flurry of activity drew Daryl's eye a moment before he realized what he was seeing.
The woman… the woman with the Duke shirt. She was taking down her tent. Leaving.
She was pulling up one of the stakes as he approached, kicking at it when it didn't budge right away. Some of her belongings were sitting in a neat pile on the hardpack.
As he approached, he could hear her breathing hard as she worked. Her hair was messy. Messier than it was a few hours before, when Merle started hassling her.
Merle.
The moment his brother's name entered his mind, he froze. A cold wave of tension flowed through his body. Without consciously thinking about what he was doing, Daryl went over to her side. It was as if he'd been pulled there by a string.
"Ain't you glad—Ain't you glad, that the blood done signed my name?
On the walls, on the walls—yeah, the blood done signed my name.
On the walls, on the walls—yeah, the blood done signed my name.
Oh the blood done signed my name."
"What'd he do?" he asked.
She looked up, exhaled hard.
"Leave me alone."
She was breathing fast. Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears.
He stepped forward. He had to know.
"Tell me."
She threw up her hands, as if she could ward him off that way. And that's when he saw it.
On her hands. The marks were faint in the darkness, but he could see them. Bloodstains. Smeared thin, like she'd tried to wipe them off in a hurry.
There were bloodstains on her hands.
And it all came rushing back to him. What Merle said in the Thompson garage.
"Nothin' stoppin' us now. This is our world—don't you see it? They don't know nothin', but we can live our way. Daryl… we're free."
Merle's savage mood. The way he'd hammered in those stakes and talked about these people being nothing but farm animals.
"We stay a night," he'd said.
"Two if there's any half-decent pussy."
Daryl took her wrist, stared at the blood there. She tensed in his grip and her breath stopped. She looked at him with wide eyes. The she swallowed hard. It was obvious she didn't want to cry in front of him.
"Did he—"
He choked on the words. Started again.
"Did he hurt you?"
And what Merle had said just a few hours before came into his mind. He could hear him spitting out the words as if he were standing there.
"Fucking uppity bitch needs someone to show her what a real man can do."
Oh God.
He dropped her hand. His own had gone limp. In the distance, the guitar reeled out a cheerful bridge in a major key.
She backed away from him. Her tears had started in earnest, now. She couldn't hold them back any longer. And when her foot hit the pile of tent stakes on the ground, she grabbed them. Started throwing them at him.
"Go away!" she shouted, "Why won't you go away? Get out of here!"
He backed off, then, as fast as he could. Felt ashamed he'd pressed at her the way he did. Felt complicit in what Merle had done.
God. What Merle had done.
They should have never come here.
He felt cold and sick. His hands were numb.
And yet, somehow… he wasn't surprised. It was almost as if he'd known this was going to happen. Of course he'd known—it was bound to happen, eventually. He couldn't watch Merle every second.
"Ain't you glad—Ain't you glad, that the blood done signed your name?
In the heavens, in the heavens—yeah, the blood done signed your name.
In the heavens, in the heavens—yeah, the blood done signed your name.
Oh the blood done signed your name."
The worst thing about it was that it made so much sense. It all made perfect sense.
That was the last coherent thought he had. He was halfway to his own tent by then. And memories rushed over him. Merle beating up an array of damaged, weak, fragile girlfriends. They were always younger than him by a good measure. Beating on Daryl the same way when he was real little.
And the baby birds—God, those little baby birds. The bloody mess in that nest, way back in the foggy corners of his memory. And through it all, Merle seemed so tall, so big—so strong.
And, perhaps for the first time, Daryl realized that he was tall, big, and strong, now, too.
"Well you know your name's been written down by that Lamb of God above—
Oh yeah, that blood done signed your name."
He reached the bikes. Grabbed the .44, made sure it was loaded, and tucked it in his belt.
Then he went to find Merle.
The herd crested a swelling hill. The wide nighttime landscape opened up around them.
Below, there was a brightly lit assembly of tents. Shapes moving on narrow avenues. Signs of life.
They pressed forward.
Merle sat out on the very edge of the perimeter, trying to smoke a cigarette. Trying to still his shaking hands. He felt sick to his stomach. The withdrawal symptoms were getting worse by the hour.
He couldn't sleep—could barely think. And he'd had this burning anger consuming him from inside. It needed an outlet.
So he waited for hours in the darkness, until his brother was soundly asleep. Then he'd gone out. Collected all the cleaned-out guts from Daryl's rabbits and squirrels, and watched that bitch's tent. The moment that foreign, uppity, college-girl bitch stepped outside, he'd slipped in and smeared all of those guts top to bottom through the inside of her sleeping bag.
He thought what he'd done would make him feel better. Put Uppity Bitch in her place. But it didn't. He almost—almost felt ashamed. It was like something a kid would do. He was starting to realize how much older he was, now—how much time had gone by without his notice. Other people—old buddies of his. They'd built lives of their own, and faded out of his… but Merle? Merle was the same as ever—a blank, empty, negative space blotting a godforsaken corner of the earth.
But he shook it off a moment later. No. It was just the chills and the aches and pains talking. He had to do it. She made him look a fool, and Daryl had knocked him down. He'd been feeling too damned sick to fight back, and fell over like some weak woman. Everyone saw that. He couldn't leave it be. He had to do something.
He looked down, realized the cigarette had burned out in his hand. He dropped the stub. Stared at it there. He felt weak. Nauseous. He could barely focus on that stub, smoking up at him from the hardpack.
So when Daryl threw a punch at him from the side and sent him sprawling, Merle had no idea what had happened.
Merle's brother towered over him. As Merle rolled over on the dirt to face him, Daryl glared down into his bleary eyes.
"You sick, disgusting fuck."
Daryl's tone was calm and steady. He didn't raise his voice. Merle rubbed his eyes, squinted at Daryl from the ground. His brother's face swam in and out of focus.
"… wait, what?"
Daryl kicked him hard in the ribs. Merle groaned, rolled onto his side. Tried to stand up.
"Merle… what's wrong with you?"
Merle tried to stand up again. Talked to the ground while he did it. His arms were trembling.
"What's got your panties in such a bunch this—"
Daryl kicked him again. Merle doubled over on the ground, winded. Gasped for air. His mind flailed around for some reason his brother was doing this. The bitch. Uppity Bitch. Must have seen what he'd done with her.
"This about that bitch back there?" he asked. Daryl kicked him again and he went sprawling down on the ground, face first.
Merle didn't understand. He'd never seen Daryl like this before. It's like something had snapped inside him. What he did… it was a stupid thing to do. Even Merle knew that… but it wasn't like it was some goddamned murder.
He tried to smile at Daryl. Spread his hands.
"Brother, come on, why—why you so bent outta shape?"
Daryl leaned over him. Narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
Kicked him again. The words started pouring out of him.
"You're a sick, cruel bastard. You always been one."
"Ever since I can remember you were always trying to hurt everyone—everything—all the time."
"You like it. It's all you goddamn know. It's who you fucking are."
Daryl leaned down over him, looking him hard in the face. Merle's brow furrowed deep.
"Wait, wait, Daryl—what is it you think I did?"
Daryl glared at him. He was leaning over above him. Merle's vision was swimming in and out of focus, but eventually his eyes landed on the .44 on Daryl's belt.
He'd brought the gun.
And all at once, Merle realized what Daryl thought. Everything he'd said to Daryl before… good lord.
Merle raised his hands in supplication.
"Daryl… I didn't."
He tried to raise himself, Daryl shoved him down again.
"The hell you didn't."
"Daryl, I didn't—did she—did she tell you that?"
"I know what I saw. There was blood, Merle."
"I didn't, brother… why would you just go and fucking assume somethin' like that?"
Daryl grabbed him by the collar, dragged him upright.
"Why?"
He shook him in his grip.
"Why?"
Merle had never felt so helpless. He clung to consciousness by a thread. His brother shouted in his face.
"Why wouldn't I?"
Daryl dropped him, and he fell again. Daryl looked down at him again, spat out the words.
"Would it even be the first time?"
Merle's disbelief started wearing off, and he started getting angry.
"Fuck you, Daryl," he spat, "Why you even care so much, anyway?"
Daryl leaned over Merle, made to punch him hard in the jaw. Merle managed to block him. Pulled him close by the arm. They were face to face.
"I'm your brother, for chrissakes. Why you care 'bout some goddamned sand nigger more than your own blood?"
Daryl tried to pull away and Merle tugged him in closer. Refused to let go and dug his hands in hard on his arm. And Daryl looked him straight in the eyes.
"You'll never understand."
He said it like he was realizing it for the first time.
Merle sighed, softly—pained from skin to guts. That helpless feeling went swelling over him again like a wave.
"Daryl—It ain't—it ain't supposed to be like this—it ain't. it's supposed to be you and me..."
He gagged. Thought he was about to throw up. Held it down.
"You and—"
Daryl shook his head. Interrupted.
"No. There's no you and me. Never was. Can't never be."
"You're broken, Merle! There's nothin' in you but what wants to hurt and hit and—and worse."
"I was gonna leave, Merle! I was ready to go! I had my bag packed and I'd already checked out the bike. I woulda never come back. I was done with you!"
"You're nothin', Merle, you hear me?"
Finally, Merle whispered back—pleading.
"Brother…"
"I ain't your brother!"
Merle stared at Daryl—stunned into silence. Barefaced and open, Daryl continued. When he spoke, his voice was soft and quiet.
"I hate you."
Merle froze. Something shattered deep within his chest. He stopped making any effort to deflect the blows, and just let Daryl kick and punch at him as long as he wanted. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Daryl stopped. Just stood over him, breathing heavy.
Merle spit out some blood onto the pavement. He didn't feel the pain. For the moment, he couldn't really feel anything.
Then they both heard the screams in the distance. A commotion. They looked towards the camp.
People were running. Somewhere near the perimeter, a tent collapsed. Neither of them could see anything more, yet, but they instantly knew what was happening.
Walkers.
And there was no sound of gunfire, no sign of the military men who'd guarded the camp so far. They looked at each other. Without saying a word, they understood it at the same time—the soldiers were gone, and there was no defense set up in their place.
Overcome by a wave of nausea, Merle vomited on the ground in wracking heaves. And when he was done, he looked up at his brother, dizzy. The world spun around him.
And in the camp, the screaming started to grow louder in the nighttime air.
