Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead". As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.
Flutter
Chapter Seven
It was a long time before either one of them spoke, long enough for the road to start dipping downwards, angling south in a gradual incline that indicated that they were finally nearing the lakefront. They finished the jerky not long after that, counting their chickens before they hatched, he supposed – but by that point he was too hungry to care. Or perhaps more pointedly, too hungry to refuse the bird when she insisted that he take the last piece. Fixing him a look he was only too happy to avoid when he finally snatched it from her fingers. Women.
He chewed it slowly, determined to make it last.
They passed a few houses, cabins mostly. There were a smattering of vacation homes, the ones with the fake wood paneling and the perfectly manicured front lawns - likely some city-slicker's idea of 'getting in tune with nature' or some shit. Most had gaping front doors and broken windows, smashed in roofs and off-color webs that shrouded the walls in muted halos of sticky white. But others, nothing, with the odd home standing seemingly untouched, welcoming. But they didn't risk it, not even when the canteen ran dry.
Appearances weren't just deceiving, they were often deadly.
But even he had to admit that he was starting to get desperate. Night had fallen and they were caught in the open – pausing at three way intersections and awkward forks in the road, using the bird's tiny, purse-sized flashlight to read the street signs. He lost track of how many times he'd asked her if she recognized anything - homes, roads, landmarks - but she just shook her head. Frustration and desperation clouded her gaze as her cell beeped discouragingly, the sound oddly muffled in the surrounding mist.
"Why do you hunt?" she asked eventually. Breaking the tension as night settled around them, making it impossible to see more than a few inches ahead as the bird's flashlight eventually spluttered – fading in and out a handful of times before dying completely.
He couldn't see the moon. Everything was shrouded, close.
The question took him by surprise, but more because of her interest than the question itself. He wasn't used to people actually giving a shit. He was used to people using him up, wearing him down and then discarding him afterwards, like a used rubber - like something that was not worth keeping.
But she didn't. Not yet anyway.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she walked beside him, keeping pace with him easily now – despite her exhaustion, her expression tense but encouraging as her fingers twisted around the straps of her purse. Probably a nervous habit.
She was a tough little thing, he'd give her that.
A dozen answers leapt readily to mind, all perfectly accurate and believable in their own right. To eat, for the challenge, the sport, because it was what he did – what a Dixon did, because it was none of her god damn business, and so on. But he surprised himself by answering her honestly.
"To feel alive," he replied. Deliberately not looking back as she paused, her steps turning hesitant for a split second before she fell back into place beside him – back into the rhythm, the soothing grate of shoe soles meeting the pavement as her expression turned thoughtful.
He'd surprised her, he could tell that much right away. He wasn't sure why, but it made him want to continue. It made him want to make her understand. Carefully playing around with the notion that he actually gave a flying crap what she thought of him before he tossed it - unwilling to examine it any further as he shook his head and soldiered on. After all, he'd come this far, there didn't seem much harm in continuing.
"I've spent most of my life in the woods, back in Georgia," he explained. "Learning to make it out here, out in the wild was probably the only useful thing Merle ever taught me," he grunted, too used to the truth of it for the words to sting.
"I ain't like you, don't wanna be either. The city, people, it's all fake, stifling - synthetic. Out here you get everything at face value. No lies, no hidden costs or upfront fees. It's natural, real – simple. It ain't kind any more than it is inherently evil or naturally apathetic. It just is. But it provides for you if you provide for it. A man don't need anything more outta life than that."
"We all have wildness in us. I'm just honest about letting it out," he finished, pausing for a moment as something rustled in the brush off to their left. It could be a deer, something normal – harmless. But then again, when had they ever been that lucky?
She appeared to think about it, teeth tugging at her lower lip before the corners tilted upwards. Her expression was cheeky and surprisingly daring as she turned around and blithely replied, "Huh, well, I knit."
For the first time in a long time, he laughed until he thought he was going to be sick. His voice was raspy and awkward - unused, like it had been decades since the last time he'd truly laughed.
It was nearly twilight by the time she grabbed his arm, so excited he actually forgot to flinch. Her eyes glinted as she whispered, her expression alive with a filtering by-play of shadows that reflected in the low light. So close in his ear that he could feel the warmth of her breath as she bounded forward.
"That's my neighbor's house!"
And soon enough they rounded on the place from behind, just like he'd promised. It was a nice enough place, a fixer upper with a sagging back porch and clogged gutters. It was homey though, respectable.
Her breath caught in her throat when the house came into view. He half expected her to bolt, to race ahead like she had on the road only a few hours before. But she didn't. Instead she crowded close, the action unconscious and instinctive as he advanced, crossbow up. He could practically taste her fear. Fear of what they would find inside, fear of what they wouldn't.
The bird turned the key in the lock, both of them wincing when it opened grudgingly, all squeaking hinges and rusty springs.
It was a simple enough nest, decent. It was made in the ranch style with two floors, a wraparound deck and a root cellar. But it reeked of compromise, of a hasty decision and forced settlement. It was wrong, wrong for her, right down to the very foundations. Hell, even the furniture didn't fit, all smooth and streamlined, at odds with the more rustic atmosphere with the faded hardwood and flowered wallpaper. It was like comparing a stallion to a draft horse, it just didn't fit. Even the appliances looked out of place. Hell, it seemed like everything she owned came out of one of those fancy-ass magazines you see at the tills at the grocery store. Trying and failing to fit together with the faded, honey-pearl walls and the glitter-flecked ceiling that was about thirty years out of date.
Perhaps the metaphor of a bird was more accurate than he'd realized, because by the look if it, she was a bird that had been caught in the act of spreading her wings.
He scanned the halls, ignoring her as she crowded behind him. The place looked safe enough, at least for now. The bird hadn't been lying when she'd said she'd only just moved in, the first floor was basically a sea of boxes, crumpled newspaper and stray packing peanuts. Everywhere he looked there were framed photos, knick-knacks and art propped up against the walls, with towers of boxes labeled 'kitchen' and 'pantry' having been inexplicably stacked in the mud room, living room, and front entrance rather than where they should have been.
It was a mess, but a surprisingly organized one.
He took it in with a critical eye. The house looked untouched. The doors and windows were all intact. No webs. No damage. But it was too early to say they were in the clear.
"Wanda? Victor?..." she hissed, her voice hardly above a whisper as he put a finger to his lips as they paused. Listening.
It wasn't until a full minute had passed that he motioned for her to go ahead.
He followed her through a maze of halls, stepping over unpacked boxes and flattened bubble wrap. He paused, letting his eyes flicker over a mess of toys and upturned boxes in the room across from the kitchen, styrofoam and packing plastic were strewn across the den as if someone had been caught in the middle of unpacking and suddenly dropped everything.
"Wanda? Baby, its mommy, where are you sweetheart?"
It didn't take him long to suss out that maybe he wasn't the only one who had been running. There was no sign of a husband, a male, or anyone else save for the three of them. All the pictures were of the bird and her chicks. There were no empty beer cans, worn ball caps or scuffed size ten sneakers. Couple all that together with a sudden move and it all started to make sense.
The bird was smarter than he gave her credit for.
Whoever he was, the man hadn't deserved her – them. You'd have to be a fool to give all this up - a little woman, a family, the apple pie life? Wasn't that what every man wanted? Idiots and assholes not withstanding.
They made their way up the stairs cautiously, chewing on the inside of his cheek when the house shifted, settling as the grandfather clock, still partially wrapped in thin, packing paper downstairs chimed out the hour. 2am.
He pushed past her when they reached the second floor, wincing when his foot caught on a loose floorboard, the high pitched creak echoing loudly in the quiet. Damnit. He kept her behind him. A steady presence at his back as he edged around the landing, crouching slightly as the cluttered hallway of the floor above slowly became visible.
A muffled thump issued from somewhere above their heads, too loud, too concentrated to be explained away as the house shifting or a sound floating in from the outside. The bird had her mouth open to call out, but he shook his head. His fist snapping up in a sharp negative as something tickled on the edge of his senses.
His bow came up, finger tight on the trigger. They weren't alone.
He caught her eye in the gloom, face alive with the conflicting expressions of fear and hope "Attic?" He mouthed. She nodded.
They waited. The silence stretched. Nothing. Then-
"…Mommy?"
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This is more to come! Stay tuned!
Reference: In the movie, Melissa McBride's character has two children that she left alone at home in order to go grocery shopping. Her daughter, Wanda, is eight years old, and her younger brother Victor, whose age is not specified.
"It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds." – Aesop
