Chapter 12

Arnold stayed outside of the camper with his dogs. His horse was tied up nearby. He lit up a small fire in the stone pit and settled in the plastic lawn chair.

Ryan was inside the camper. The doors were locked. She didn't sleep and kept her handgun on the small end table beside the lantern. The shotgun never left her hands. She didn't know what this man was pulling, but she wasn't in the mood. Her heart pounded like a sledgehammer in her chest.

She hasn't seen life for weeks, and while she wants to be excited about seeing another living person and not an oozing, pussing, groaning walker that might or might not be missing a limb, she was more scared than anything. There were too many horrifying things he could do to her and all of them were playing over in her head. Being three times her size was intimidating too. If he tried to break in or worse, she was ready.

When dawn broke through the trees with blinding orange rays that split through the camper, Ryan came outside. The morning was already hot. Soon enough the camper would be an oven.

Arnold was still here and was giving his dogs water. She pulled out the cylindrical, cardboard container of grits from under the counter and made herself a bowl from the one pot and jug of water. Without butter, it was basically a bowl of slop, but food was food and this had some decent protein and iron in it.

"Good morning, Miss." Arnold greeted. He smiled at her, flashing her his dimples. In the daylight, it was most definitely charming. The corners of his eyes crinkled and his blue eyes sparkled. Her mouth was full so she just waved her spoon.

"Ryan," she replied automatically after swallowing down a mouthful of watery grits. "My name…"

"Interesting name."

Ryan moved a few steps. Careful ones. His dogs panted. They looked docile enough, but she'd seen Cujo and Cabin Fever and Hostel 2. It was nothing for them to turn vicious. She canted her head to one side. Then again, they looked pretty docile. Lazy even. She turned back to Arnold.

"I'm still not going anywhere with you. I've done well enough on my own. You don't need to save me, so you can turn and go on your way," she said. She cocked her shotgun for extra emphasis.

Arnold was unbothered by it. He just patted Atlas on the head.

"And that scar?" He nodded toward her chest.

Ryan touched her chest, feeling the soft, mottled line. She'd nearly forgotten about it. She inhaled deeply and then let it out. For a second, she thought about when Troy had touched it and then shuddered.

"Heart surgery. I'm all better, obviously." She gave him a thin-lipped smile.

"And strong-willed. That's good." He chuckled.

Ryan turned away.

"It's something," she muttered under her breath.

"So, what are we doing today?"

Ryan spun around at that, her eyes wide. We?

"No. No, you leave because you did your weird duty to watch over me and then I get on with my day," she said.

Conan cocked his head to the side, made a strange whining sound of confusion. Arnold arched his brow at her. He really did look like a southern gentleman. It was throwing her off.

"Ryan, my mama told me to always have good manners around women. It wouldn't be very—"

"I'm going to stop you right there because I can't bear for you to repeat that again," Ryan said with a half-snort.

Arnold chuckled at that. He ran his hand through his blonde locks and looked out across the flat campground. The willows were hanging especially low today. Their drooping branches swayed when the breeze picked up.

"What do I have to do to prove to you that I'm not the bad guy?" Arnold pressed his palm flat against his heart.

Ryan didn't reply at first. Her head was jumbled as she debated with herself. Tuck would've accepted instantly. He was good like that, not judging first. Reed would've kept his distance for a few days. Then there was Kenny who, with his own agenda, probably would've killed him. Troy would've outright told him to go. He didn't trust anyone, not even himself. He was always uncertain and he tried to act as if he could care less.

Her? She didn't know. She wanted him to go on his way. For them to part, even though she was partial to the idea of blowing off one's head and then asking questions later. But that meant she'd be alone. Again, she hadn't seen life in a long time. She looked off into the distance, her eyebrows pinching under the hot sun. She was already coated in a sheet of sweat. What did she do, because none of them were around? It was just her.

"Look, you have every right to distrust me. Until you trust me, I'm not going anywhere," Arnold said.

Ryan hesitated. Then, reluctantly, she rested the shotgun against the camper.

"Before you know it we'll be good friends." He flashed her that pearly smile again that she was sure would work any woman into a frenzy. She wasn't falling for it, but at this point, it seemed like he was less of a threat.

She spent the day listening to him talk. He asked her about herself. She limited her answers. Kept them short. And she always had one eye on him. He didn't look at her like the dirty grimmer that she looked like and she did look especially dirty. Lake water did only so much. She couldn't even fathom touching her hair. It was gross, but it remained in a messy bun. Her clothes that had once been a red t-shirt and denim shorts were now caked with sweat and dirt. One of her sneakers' soles was basically hanging by the heel, but luckily, she'd found duct tape and fixed it with that. Duct tape fixes everything. Polished Arnold didn't care about any of this. Or if he did he hid it quite well.

She fished and he helped descale her catch. She ate quietly, but he asked her questions. A few times, she looked at him utterly deranged. He talked like nothing in the world had changed. Like she was just somebody new, not somebody who'd said she steal his horse. As if walkers were not a reality.

She tossed two of the cooked fish at the dogs. They contemplated them for a moment before chowing down like starving locusts on greenery. Nothing was left. Even she didn't let a single bit go to waste.

As the afternoon faded to twilight, Ryan still didn't want to go and she'd more than encouraged him to screw off. That southern hospitality though.

By day three of him being here at the camper, he was starting to convince her. He was also beginning to get annoying. But she'd learned quite a bit about him. He was a storyteller. She'd even begun telling him a little about herself. That she was a twin. A bit about her

He lived out on a plantation. The way he described it, it was beautiful. It spanned for acres. Farmland surrounded it. An arc of willows hung over the main drive up to the house. It nearly sounded like Gone with the Wind. The more he talked about it, the more she was considering it. The plantation was sounding like a solid place.

I wish you here, she thought, but about who, she didn't know.

"Fine." She caved. There many possible reasons why, but she didn't know which one pushed her to it. The loneliness or the fact that he was making it sound so good.

Arnold's eyebrows rose, intrigued. His lips pulled up at one corner, but it didn't make him look smug. Just the opposite.

"I'll come see this grand estate," Ryan told him. "It might get you to shut the hell up."

"Splendid." He stood and offered his hand to her.

She stared at it and then took it. If this was some sort of trap she was screwed. Depending on how screwed, she hoped her heart gave out first. Before leaving the camper for good, she tossed her final note she'd used the last of the ink from her pen on. It wasn't anything special. Just something she'd been thinking about.


Alicia and Grant walked at the front. While their guns didn't have many rounds, they still made the good blunt instrument. A sign not that far back called for a town. Finally.

First, they crossed through a neighborhood, which wasn't all that bad looking. An abandoned car here and there. Suitcases littering about. Alicia paused at seeing a stuffed teddy bear for a brief moment.

While there were walkers dragging through it, they ganked several and cleared out a pale blue house to stay in. It was basic. Alicia could easily compare it to what her house used to look like. The living room with its two comfy chairs, the couch, and a coffee table. Picture frames were knocked onto the floor. The fireplace had never been used. The dining room. The kitchen. All the same. It was depressing. Of course, there were a few pieces of furniture knocked over and dishes on the floor that showed the hurry this family had been in when they left, but nothing that couldn't be put right. Alicia couldn't help but wonder if any of them that had lived here were still alive.

Grant and Strand went on the first watch as Alicia and Shay went upstairs to get cleaned up. Both women worked fast and talked little. All doors were left open. Privacy had quickly become something people weren't seeking very often anymore.

Alicia sat down in the master bedroom. The bed was made. She set her gun beside her. It was out of place in this mix of blue. The bedspread was medium blue, the color of denim, and it was soft. The walls were pale blue, like the sky. The carpet was dark, like night. It was all so blue.

Alicia stifled a sniffle. Yet another group split apart. She hadn't had time to think about Mom and Nick and whether they were even alive. The water had come so fast out of the broken dam. The only person to find and pull her out of the water had been Strand. She could still hear the rushing water and sometimes she could taste it. She flinched, remembering and suddenly reliving nearly drowning.

She knew she was lucky. Didn't even take common sense to know that. Strand could've left her out there to drown under the rough currents. He'd told her that he wouldn't have done it had it not been for her mom saving his ass at unexpected times. This was his paying her back, his way of paying it forward. And they could've split ways. As it turned out, they worked well as a team.

When had she turned to stone though? When had that happened? Troy. It was when she saw his face again. Mom had told her only just barely offhand that she'd gotten rid of him, yet to her surprise, there he was. Alive.

Did he deserve it? Who knows for sure. But he was alive. Well, who knows now, but still.

Alicia swallowed the sharp lump in her throat. Whether her family was alive or not, it was time to move forward. As best as one possibly could anyway. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she took the few minutes she had alone to mourn. Mourn the life she once had; the possible future. Mourn the people she loved and lost. Then like that, she stopped, tucked it away into a compartment that was clamped tighter than Pandora's Box, though with Pandora being able to open it rather easily that wasn't saying much.

The shower went off and a few minutes later and Shay walked into the room, wrapped in a green towel. She was a small, petite woman. Her features, like all theirs, were weathered. While Shay sifted through the cedar wood dresser, Alicia left her guns and shoes to go and get her shower.

Everybody got clean. Strand had facilitated a meal out of the kitchen with vegetables and noodles and fruit of the mixed variety and powdered mash potatoes. It was one of the most fulfilling meals she'd had since the alligator back before the wildfire.

Alicia had found a Pink Floyd T-shirt, with a photo from their The Wall album. She didn't listen to them much, but Mom had liked them.

"I'm no veggie, but this ain' bad," Grant said, cutting through the silence.

Alicia smirked and nodded.

"I especially like the potatoes." Alicia let the gob on her spoon plop with a watery splat back onto her plate.

They all laughed and it wasn't a fake laugh to fill the void. It was hearty and actually filled with life. It was strange.

They should've heard it. But, they didn't. They didn't hear the front door open. They went on, taking this moment to simmer in the short relief, seeing as it never lasts long. And, it didn't last long at all.


"Now, I must warn you, my family—they're on the traditional side," Arnold said over his shoulder.

Ryan resisted a snort. Her first boyfriend told her that, too. And his mother hated her with a fiery passion that could burn her at the stake. It was fun getting under her skin though. She was very Catholic.

Ryan was up on the horse with her arms around Arnold's waist. He was much broader than she anticipated. Conan and Atlas stayed within a ten-foot radius as she clopped along. She kept her weapons. The shotgun was slung across her back.

"She's like that with all of the people that we've come across. Like you, she's grown distrustful these days," he went on. "She comes around though."

"And you?" Ryan asked.

"I think we need all the help we can get if we hope to regain some semblance of the life we once had."

She liked that answer. It was honest and made sense. It sounded like Tuck.

The sun was cresting past the trees when they broke through a wide open field. White fluff floated in the air. She reached her hand out, her fingers just out of reach. It was the summer snow that floated upward. Cotton.

Beyond the field, a couple of hundred feet away, a large, two-story, colonial home—no, a plantation home—stood tall. Black shutters graced the windows. Large willows guarded the house in the front yard.

"Welcome to Mayfair," Arnold said. "We have more fields at the back. It'll be time to harvest soon."

"How do you take care of it all…" Ryan trailed off, staring off in wonder.

"Like you, we've found others and they've repaid us by helping out around here. There's actually a cabin not far off. With our growing numbers, we're also able to keep the area clean of walkers." Arnold kept talking, but Ryan was captivated by this place. It was untouched. It was an Eden.

Two women and a young gentleman, close to Arnold's age by the looks of it, but with brown hair, were already waiting outside. They were wearing similar clothes that were also nicely pressed.

"You go off on a chase and bring back a stray, Arnold," the man with dark brown hair said with a laugh.

"I was thinking nearly the worst," the oldest woman said. Her hair was blond but streaked with silver. His mother.

Arnold hopped down to the ground and then offered assistance to Ryan. She accepted and a strange feeling worked up her hand and arm when she took his hand, leaving it tingling. His sweeter-than-iced-tea grin didn't help.

"Why, honey, you're a mess," the older woman said to her. She tugged her forward and into the large house. "Let's get you cleaned up and fed, hmm? You're thinner than a corn stalk."

Before she could protest, Ryan was pulled along by the hand and ushered into a bedroom attached to a bathroom. She didn't have a chance to be on her guard. There'd been no chance to check the exits, look for a quick escape, or even at possible weapons.

"There are towels in the closet there and I'll have some clothes set out for you on the bed, dear," she said.

Ryan's mouth was left hanging open as the door closed with ease, leaving her alone. Ryan spun around slowly, taking it all in. The bathroom was clean and white and…clean. She placed her hands in the edge of the sink, leaning on it to give herself a brief moment to relax her back. Her reflection in the round, antique mirror was horrifying. Dirty was an understatement. She could be one of those walkers out there. Dried sweat coated her skin with layers of mud and dirt. Her hair was crumbled with dirt and mud. She couldn't even see where her hair-tie was.

In a cup on the counter, near the top of the sink, was an old razor, combs, and pair of scissors. Ryan pulled out the scissors and searched her hair until she found the crusty band and then cut it. Her hair didn't fall into waves or anything luscious like that. It didn't move from its sculpted shape.

Ryan moved to the claw-footed tub, its shower attachment also antique gold. Turning the faucet, Ryan was stunned to feel hot water come rushing out. Though it was hotter than hell out, the scalding stream felt really good. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled the steam to the point that her lungs wouldn't expand anymore.

Slowly, she pulled her clothes off. Her ribs were severe. Her skin was dark and almost leather from the sun. Her feet cracked and blistered. Ryan hissed and winced as she settled underneath the shower spray. The knots in her muscles released and her hair splattered to her back.

Brown mud coated the floor of the tub, swishing down the drain. Ryan stood under the spray and watched until the water was clear going down the drain. Her hair fell down around her face. Water ran through her dark locks, loosening them. Her body ached.

Reaching up, she touched her chest, running her fingers along the length of her scar. It blazed a fiery red. It was touchy, like a bruise, but healed. Underneath, she could feel her heart beat and shuddered. What if she had died on the table? What if she died right now? She was alone. She sniffled.

For a second that was so brief it made her hiccup, she imagined hands gripping her shoulders, holding her steady. They were gentle, but she didn't know who they belonged to.

With as much ease as she could manage, she lowered herself to the floor of the tub. She pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed. She sobbed until there was nothing left. She missed her brother. She couldn't imagine that he might be dead. She just couldn't. She missed Sophia and Grant and Trick. She missed…him, too. She couldn't forget how livid he looked when that psycho had a knife to her throat. It was scary as hell. Made her shake. She'd never seen anything like it. He'd been completely void. Empty of any care.

But, he'd killed that man and then the rest. She couldn't wait to get away. A person wasn't naturally like that. The dead were.

Then there'd been flickers. Something human inside of him and that scared her worse. She never knew what he was capable of. Now she wouldn't. They were gone. Good as dead.

She was alone.


"Don't you fucking move."

Alicia froze. Her eyes met Grant's. Both of them worked a silent plan. Attack. Survive. Repeat.

Her muscles tensed. The strain ached and the adrenaline was kicking in. She was tired, but it would have to wait. There were five of them. Men. They all had a weapon. Two with shotguns. One with a machete. The last two with handguns. They were cleaned up which meant that if they didn't live here, they had a place nearby. Their clothes looked pretty decent, too. Alicia bit the inside of her cheek. Before killing them, she was going to figure out where they came from.

At the same time, she and Grant shot up out, flinging their chairs back, and attacked the men behind them. Strand followed as did Shay. In mere seconds, they were down on the floor, their attempt to fight back pulverized. Grant took the butt of a shotgun to the head. Blood seeped through his hair. Strand breathed heavily and was muttering to himself.

Was this when they died? Alicia couldn't fathom it.

"I told you—" The barrel of a gun pressed into the back of her head. "—don't fucking move."

"Oy! Ye prick!" Grant growled.

"Mama Franny is going to be excited that we got more help," one of the men spoke. His southern accent was incredibly backwoods. So much so that Alicia cringed.

Help? What the hell?

"Oh yes. After the last few we lost. This is a great find," said another.

"No more hitting them, especially the girl. You know how Mama is."

They each had their hands tied behind their backs and then were dragged to their feet. The men inspected each of them.

"You should be proud. Can't imagine folks get it as good as this these days."

Strand scoffed.

"Good?" He said. A vein across his forehead bulged.

"Normally, you'd be killed on sight for trespassing on somebody's property and stealing their things, but not us. No. You'll be working in our fields." The one that had hit Grant spoke in a low rumble that was filled with glee. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair was dull under his camo ball cap. "You'll kill the dead. Give us whatever we need. For that, you'll have a roof over your head and food in your bellies."

"I think we'll pass," Grant said.

The man laughed and the other joined in. Alicia blanched.

"You bitches think you're being given the choice." The cold, dead

The man behind Strand placed a hand on his shoulder, jostling him roughly.

"Be happy! You're back in your rightful place."

"Long live the south!" One man hooted.

Grant and Strand's eyes bulged from their sockets. These assholes…did they just imply…? Grant blanched. Rightful place. Slavery.

"Except you," said black t-shirt. "No, you'll go to the big house. Both of you."

He eyed Shay greedily. She shrank.

Alicia went cold. She used all her might, all of her strength, to resist breaking down in defeat.