If there had been any time to think at all, then Beth would have thought that this plan was about the most insane thing that anyone ever conceived of; it came from the mind of Daryl Dixon. Armed with Brady's grave-robbed knife and rifle, she followed Daryl's lead.

Limping all the while, Daryl chopped off Brady's arms and legs with Michonne's katana and used the scraps of meat to satiate the walkers as they made their way uphill, breaking up the head of the horde. They started picking off the easy ones; the walkers that were a little removed from the others—and the ones that were too fast. Daryl shouted at Beth to lie back against a tree and she didn't even question it, not even after he tossed one of the bodies on top of her, and then another.

In a few mad seconds, she started to catch on to what he was doing. As more walkers approached her, Daryl killed them too, or he made sure that she would be able to stick them with her dagger or shoot them with Brady's riffle from her half-buried vantage point. Gradually, the pile of the dead around her grew higher and wider. Daryl had only fired off five rounds from Brady's pistol, he still had three to spend, but he was saving them. He'd stowed the gun in his belt and used Michonne's sword to hack through corpse skulls and skew them through the eyes. Drenched in sweat, he stumbled on the boarder of the growing hill of bodies. Gore dripped from his hair, goatee and the tip of his nose. His bad leg was shaking every time to put weight on it, but it hadn't failed him yet. Between the streaks of filth his skin was troubling white. He was losing blood and breath.

"Daryl! That's enough, get in here!" Beth shouted. The bulk of the herd was less than fifty yards downhill. So far, they'd only met the quick ones, who ran out front. A stumbling wall of the dead was steam-rolling ever closer and once it hit, there would be too many of them. Fifty yards was cutting it too close.

For a moment, it looked like Daryl would ignore her, or like he couldn't hear her in the first place, either because the moans of the dead were too loud, or because he was too enveloped in the act of brutally slaughtering the head of the horde. He leaned on Michonne's sword, his bad leg nearly collapsing beneath him. Ahead of them, three smaller groups of walkers were still detained by Brady's chopped limbs that Daryl had thrown to them, further down the hill, a pack of about twenty feasted on his torso.

Snarling, another walker climbed towards her from across the pile of corpses, "Daryl!" she stabbed it in the face as it snapped at her, reaching with broken fingers. The weight of this new body collapsed right on top of her. She groaned, shifted as best she could and looked up again to see Daryl climbing into the pile beside her.

He winced as he shoved one body aside to settle in next to her, working his way below two layers of corpses. He tucked his injured leg in first, and with Beth's help, heaved another body right on top.

The nearest group of walkers had finished off Brady's arm and were starting to make their way towards them. Exchanging identical I-sure-as-shit-hope-this-works-looks, Beth and Daryl wriggled underneath the dead, pulling more bodies around them until they were completely buried.

Even from underneath the pile, Daryl shoved Michonne's katana up to take care of the more aggressive and agile walkers that managed to crawl across the pile to where fresh meat still breathed in stinking air. The weight of them was crushing, but the tree behind them helped. Shifting bodies around from underneath, they were able to create a kind of tight, dark, horrifying lean-to, using the trunk and roots to take some of the pressure off. There was just enough air that they didn't actually suffocate, and just enough light that she could see Daryl lying flat on his back next to her. His hand was in a fist, while his elbow dug into the ground next to him propping a corpse a few inches above his face.

She tried to do the same, but her hand shook and her wrist bent after just a few minutes, even with the support of the ground beneath her, it was too much weight uncomfortably pressing against her arm. Her wrist began to strain and the corpse head dipped low until what was left of the walker's nose was nuzzled into her chest.

The groans and shuffling march of the dead grew louder around them as the bulk of the herd passed by, but that was all they did; they walked right passed them.

"This is crazy," Beth dared to whisper.

With the hand that wasn't supporting the weight above him, Daryl raised a finger to his lips.

After living in this world for so long, Beth thought she'd gotten used to the stench of death. She thought she'd gotten used to slick chunks of blood and flesh clinging to her, but the weight of the dead on top of her made her breath come in short, which made her light-headed. It felt like they were being slowly crushed, for weeks, by all of it; the smell of death, like a hand trying to wriggle its way down her throat, the oppressive, churning growls and moans, the gore dripping onto them steadily.

She watched Daryl, because she was afraid that he'd lost too much blood from the wound in his leg; she wanted to see that his eyes were still open, still burning back at her in the fading strips of light that wormed their way between the bodies on top of them.

Even after the forest returned to tranquility, and the sky darkened, they didn't move right away.

"I can't believe this worked," Beth grinned at Daryl, "How'd you think of it?"

"Uhduno," Daryl murmured back at her, "Sometimes I don't sleep so good, instead I think about stuff like this. You know, worst possible case kinda shit."

"How's your leg?"

"Hurts like a bitch, but it didn't hit me straight on and it ain't bleeding no more. You breathin' okay?"

"If you can call it that." Every time she needed to get her breath she pushed the body directly on top of her up at least a half-inch or so and filled her lungs before she let it fall. There were other bodies crossing them horizontally, so the weight was pretty immense. Her arms burned. As tough and strong as Daryl was, she felt pretty certain that he would be getting exhausted as well. If they didn't dig themselves out soon, they would be too fatigued and possibly pass out and suffocate underneath their protective pile of corpses.

As if reading her thoughts, Daryl began to shift the bodies directly on top of them. Beth wriggled into the space between them and sat up. She tried to count the number of walkers in the pile but stopped at twenty-one, deciding that there wasn't a point in knowing. The rest of the forest around them was utterly deserted and quiet except for the wind shaking the leaves. She took in what felt like her first proper breath in a long time. Next to her, Daryl moaned. He was nearly up, but the weight of four corpses pressed down on his injured leg and as he leaned forward to push the first one off, she saw him grind his teeth.

Beth struggled to her feet and heaved the first body off of him and then the next. With only two of them he was able to squeeze out, releasing a moan mingled with a vulgar curse. She helped him stand and together they crawled out of the pile.

Once they were clear of the little make-shift corpse hut, a clap from above was the only warning they got before a cloud burst open. Daryl gripped Beth's shoulder and knelt down on the ground, taking her with him and breathing heavily. By the time they were both settled in the dirt, fat raindrops pelted them from above.


This Must Be The Place - The Lumineers